


The Vapor Variant

by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Mycroft, Garridebs moment, Guilt, Guilty Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mystrade, Injury, John Watson Whump, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock Roulette, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Medical Jargon, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mutual Pining, PTSD John, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Protective Greg, Protective Sherlock, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Suspense, Virus, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 72,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel
Summary: They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril.They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear.Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods.Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over a decade since I've written anything of note, and this is my first fanfic foray in this fandom. I'm having a blast writing again and excited to finally have something to contribute!
> 
> Eternal thanks to my beta readers: thats-for-me-to-know, hotshoeagain, and J_Baillier! I am eternally grateful to them for all the help and great ideas! This would be a very different and much more mediocre story without them.

In the heat of pursuit, John could only focus on keeping up with Sherlock’s dark form as he chased Doctor Frankland; his dark mop of hair and fluttering coat silhouetted in the moonlight. John’s torch was on, but they were running too fast to aim the beam in any meaningful way. He tried to make sure he kept his footing in the dark -- the forest was full of granite boulders and gnarled roots and it would be easy to twist an ankle. He knew Sherlock had sight of Frankland, and that was enough direction for now. Sherlock’s height often put him ahead of John when they were in pursuit. Ducking and weaving, jumping and breathing -- it wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and it wouldn’t be the last.

John knew Lestrade and Henry were close behind him, but he didn’t notice they’d run to the edge of the minefield until he found himself skidding to a halt in the face of a huge inferno. Heat and noise and blinding light and the shockwave of the explosion vibrated through him and it was all so close. So sudden.

They stood, silent and horrified, catching their breath, watching the fire lick at scraps of grass and fallen leaves and what little remained of Doctor Frankland. Small bonfires scattered beyond the barbed wire, tiny blazing fireballs streaking lazily through the dark sky.

John tried to suppress the wave of panic he felt rise in him, but the situation was so sudden and unexpected; he was back in Kandahar in a blink. He had seen enough explosions to last him a lifetime while in the RAMC, blinding infernos dissolving everything and everyone in an instant. The sound, then the absence of sound, the smell of petrol and burning flesh, the immediate fight or flight response that overwhelmed rational thought. Just as quickly, he was in London, standing in a bomb-damaged 221B, relieved to find Sherlock unharmed. Standing helpless as Sherlock’s call with the old woman was cut short, her flat and her neighbors’ decimated in a heartbeat. Looking down at himself, human kindling in a blinking Semtex vest, guns trained on his heart, wondering which method of execution would hurt least.

“Well … shit,” Lestrade quietly swore in between ragged breaths, but it was enough to bring John out of his trance. There wasn’t much else to say. John felt guilty at the relief that washed over him.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Major Barrymore appeared on the scene, Sherlock began to break down the situation, barely waiting for the man’s questions before launching into his deductions and how he’d arrived at them. John could tell Barrymore wasn’t thrilled that he had to deal with Sherlock on top of the rest of the mess. As the Major walked briskly amid the scene barking orders, Sherlock matched his pace and inserted his opinions. Still, Barrymore held back his disdain well enough to allow the detective to get through the major details.

Military descended around the minefield, covering it and the surrounding woods with troops in hazmat suits, bomb disposal gear, and the ever-present fatigues. They set up huge spotlights, tents, and generators, and attempted a clean-up of what remained of Frankland. A team was sent out to explore Dewer’s Hollow and begin planning the immediate dismantling of the pipes that were pumping the gas into the moor.

Barrymore insisted on a medical team escorting Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Henry off for exams, but told them he’d be back to get official statements once they were cleared.

The men were begrudgingly shuffled to two military ambulances and put through a quick triage there in the field. The ambulances sat back to back, doors open, so someone standing between them could see into both. Despite arguing that they felt fine, all were submitted to physical exams including blood pressure measurements, pulse oximetry, and cognitive assessments, overseen by a very tired Doctor Stapleton.

She quickly ushered Henry into one of the ambulances, and a medic began taking more vitals and hooking him up to monitors. Lestrade was next, and seemed to show no signs of distress, so he was instructed to sit on the bumper and handed an oxygen mask to wear. Sherlock was much the same, to his rage.

He slumped next to Lestrade in a huff, holding the plastic mask in his hand like it was a dirty nappy. “If we’re fine then why do we have to stay? Please do see to Mister Knight but keeping the three of us is pointless,” he challenged.

Stapleton had moved onto John at that point, and her expression was more concerned. She didn’t respond to Sherlock at all, frowning as she noted John’s racing heart. He’d been trying to slow his breathing and regain control, with little success. Over an hour had passed since the explosion and he still felt the grip of panic around his chest. Although he wasn’t surprised, John was annoyed and a little embarrassed when he was directed to sit down on the stretcher inside the empty ambulance.

“Just a precaution,” Stapleton had assured him. “I’m sure that was quite a shock.” She knew the truth. He was still in the end throes of an anxiety attack, and it wasn’t letting up.

Nevertheless, after what they’d just witnessed, the whole thing felt surreal and frivolous. Sherlock was too caught up being ornery to the medic taking his blood to notice John being hooked up to a monitor in the other ambulance.

“Sherlock …” Lestrade admonished him, wearily, pulling his oxygen mask away from his face to speak. “Just relax and shut up so we can get this over with, yeah? The more you argue, the longer it’s going to take. They don’t know for sure what was in the gas. Better safe than sorry, right?”

“It’s a waste of time and resources. We know Henry’s been exposed to the gas multiple times and he’s had no lasting detrimental effects.” He rolled his eyes when he saw Lestrade’s jaw drop incredulously, and waved a hand dismissively. “Well, _I’m_ perfectly fine —”

“Yeah, I know. Nothing stops you, heaven knows. But we’re not getting out of this so just … just take a break, will you? Just cool it.” Lestrade allowed his oxygen mask to snap back over his mouth, put both his hands behind his head, and lay back against the ambulance door with his eyes closed.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared at the grass, but said nothing more. Lestrade was definitely not new to scolding Sherlock, but it didn’t escape Sherlock that John normally would have chimed in by now. Practical Doctor Watson should be insisting they all relax and submit to the exams. Realizing he’d lost track of him, Sherlock finally located his blogger in the other ambulance. Although John was looking toward Sherlock, their eyes did not meet. Instead John sat dazed on the gurney, eyes locked in a thousand-yard stare. He just about jumped out of his skin when his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

 

**All right? SH**

 

He looked up and met Sherlock’s worried eyes, which were combing over him with such scrutiny John felt like squirming. He tried to infuse his expression with reassurance, and nodded, plastering on a smile under the hiss of the O2 mask. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he nodded back, unconvinced, and squinted as he tried to read John’s monitor from four metres away.

Although he didn’t have a full blown panic attack at the blast like he might have a year ago, John was on edge, fighting with intrusive thoughts and memories of suicide bombers and roadside IEDs and Jim Moriarty blowing people up for fun. His heart rate, blood pressure, and rate of respiration were still too high, the remnants of panic still threaded through him. He kept his hands at his sides and pretended they weren’t trembling. He focused on the breathing techniques and calming mantras he’d learned in therapy, and they started to work -- albeit slowly.

It took nearly an hour for his vitals to return to normal, and Doctor Stapleton decided to keep them all detained during that time for observation. It reminded John of boot camp, when the whole team was punished for the blunders of an individual. Lestrade seemed happy enough to doze in his uncomfortable position on the ambulance bumper. John tried to close his eyes but the gruesome images were too overwhelming and he couldn’t focus on anything else. Even if he did fall asleep, he feared it would end in a nightmare and embarrassment.

Sherlock was nearly tearing his hair out by the time Stapleton cleared them, desperate to be part of the action. Still, for all Sherlock’s restlessness, John had looked up many times to see him watching, eyes passing between John and the screen showing of John’s vitals with barely concealed concern.

Nevertheless, once he was released and unhooked and fully dressed, Sherlock was tearing through the woods looking for Barrymore, who quickly passed him off to an underling. Sherlock’s explanation of Frankland’s past and the HOUND project did cause quite a stir, and they finally heard murmurings around half one in the morning that evidence had been found in the labs at Baskerville to corroborate.

“I'll get someone to take you men back,” Doctor Stapleton had said, as she dismissed them, but then Major Barrymore returned, scowling.

“There will be a formal inquiry tomorrow. An investigative team of MPs is being assembled and they’ll want to speak to all of you.”

Beside John, Henry let out a tired sigh. Lestrade’s shoulders slumped. The only one who seemed excited about the prospect of being on the witness side of an interrogation was Sherlock.

“No doubt,” he said airily. “What time do you need us?”

Barrymore’s lip curled in distaste at the prospect of spending another day with Sherlock. He looked at his watch. “0900 hours. And trust me, Mister Holmes, this is only because the investigative team has ordered it. I’ve got all the information I need from you.” He quickly turned and strode off. Sherlock was unfazed. 

 

* * *

 

They arrived back at the Inn around two in the morning. John couldn’t remember the last time he had been so exhausted. By the time they’d finally gotten back in the car, his mind felt as weary as his body.

They didn’t speak a single word when they got back to the Cross Keys Inn, just shuffled to their room, peeled off their shoes and clothes, and climbed into their respective single beds. Even Sherlock went straight to sleep, and both men slept solidly, waking a little after seven when the grey clouds of Dartmoor parted and streaks of sunlight filled their room.

John was surprised to find he hadn’t dreamt at all, but had risen to find himself sporting a beast of a headache, a stuffy nose, and a throat that felt raw when he swallowed. He took some paracetamol and had a shower, to no real change. Maybe he’d feel better once he had something to eat.

“Sleep all right?” Sherlock asked, giving him a fleeting once-over as John emerged, clean and dressed, from the bathroom. John thought he saw a flash of concern, and remembered Sherlock’s worried eyes watching him in the ambulance last night.

“Yeah,” John replied, sitting on the bed to put on his shoes, “I don’t even think I rolled over. I was exhausted. You?" 

“Fine,” Sherlock replied dismissively, threading his belt through his bespoke trousers.

 He left Sherlock to finish getting dressed and headed out to order breakfast.

 Sherlock joined him soon after, and brought him a hot cup of coffee, black the way he liked it. Suddenly, the pieces came together.

“Oh, God. It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab.”

“I had to. It was an experiment," Sherlock admitted.

“An experiment?! I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death.”

“It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions, quite literally. I knew what effect it would have on a superior mind so I needed to try it on an average one.” John wanted to throttle him.

“Any long term effects?”

“None at all. You’ll be fine once you’ve excreted it. We all will.” 

“Think I might have taken care of that already," John smirked.

 

* * *

 

“You’re sick,” Sherlock commented as John watched countless tors zip past the car window. The rock outcroppings really made the landscape quite stunning, peppering the fields and woods of Dartmoor with stone monuments big and small.

John would have been happy to head back to Baker Street after breakfast, but they still needed to meet with the inquiry board back at the base. They’d checked out of the Inn though; Barrymore had assured them they could head back to London this afternoon. At least he’d be in his own bed tonight.

Sherlock hadn’t hesitated to scramble to the top of a huge tor when they’d arrived, using the height to assess the landmarks in the area. For all his posh manners and professionalism, John saw the spark of boyish glee in Sherlock’s eyes when (after some grunting and a near slip as expensive Italian leather shoes scrambled for purchase on the stone) Sherlock stood victorious atop the giant rocks. He remembered Mycroft’s comments that Sherlock had once dreamt of being a pirate, and the dramatic, victorious pose he’d initially taken upon standing was straight off of a bottle of Captain Morgan.

“Hmm?” John asked, wiping the smile from his face, surprised to find it there in the first place. He looked over at Sherlock, whose eyes hadn’t left the road. The sun cut through the tufts of grey clouds in sharp, bright beams, making the landscape look rippled in saturated and desaturated tones.

“Sick. Your nose is running and you’ve been wincing when you swallow. You're ill.” 

“Oh. I’m sure it’s nothing, probably just allergies from all the … you know … traipsing about the forest last night.” He swallowed and realized Sherlock was right; he had been wincing. “I do have a hell of a headache, though. You feeling all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, glancing from the road to John, and giving him a skeptical once-over. “You’re not going to vomit, are you? I don’t think the rental agency would much like us returning the car with a full English breakfast sprayed about the passenger footwell.” 

John rolled his eyes. “You have such a wonderful bedside manner,” he replied, purposely slathering on the sarcasm.

“I’m not the doctor. And you’re avoiding the question,” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John suspiciously.

“No, I’m not going to vomit,” John responded tersely, and looked back to the window. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and turned them down the road to Baskerville.

 

* * *

 

Although Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Henry had all been requested to speak with the investigatory panel from the RMP, John knew Sherlock’s findings on the HOUND project would be more important than the witness statements he and Lestrade could offer. He was sure Henry would have a long history of events to go through, and wondered briefly if Doctor Mortimer would continue seeing the poor young man even after he’d almost shot her.

John knew Sherlock was also hoping to find a way back into the labs and maybe even Frankland’s office to poke around and see what else he could uncover. That morning, standing in the doorway between the en suite and the bedroom cleaning his teeth, Sherlock had been lost in thought, eyes narrowed but focused on nothing. John had been packing his bag, and looked up to see Sherlock had stopped brushing completely. He stood, toothbrush still in his hand, foam all about his mouth.

“I think for the sixty seconds to count, you’ve got to be moving the bristles,” John remarked, cocking an eyebrow.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John, and he seemed to shake himself out of his reverie. He turned back to the sink, spit, and ran the tap. A moment later he appeared back in the doorway, mouth clean and eyes narrowed.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it? The gas you inhaled in the lab was leaking quite liberally. You’d think that would have affected the pressure in the moor. Those pipes were at least a kilometer away from the base.”

“Maybe Frankland fixed it after we left the lab?” John said, winding his phone charger around his hand and stashing it in one of the outside pockets of his overnight bag.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and walked back to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

 

* * *

 

They arrived at the base ten minutes before nine. Corporal Lyons escorted them to a building with conference rooms and offices for the initial meeting with the investigative panel. Henry and Lestrade were there already, and after going over some basics of the case, the men were split up and questioned individually.

John’s interrogation had been easy and straightforward. After the initial dubious questions about why John and Sherlock had been on base to begin with (and how they’d initially gained entry, which earned John a tight-lipped grunt of disapproval from the stern looking interrogator), tension eased and it became more of an interview than anything. He kept his answers straightforward and simple, and told the truth. For the scope of this investigation, John and Sherlock hadn’t done anything of real offense, so there was no reason to be vague or deceptive.

Lunchtime came and went without notice. Sherlock rarely paid attention to mealtimes unless he was days past his last one. Everyone else was too wrapped up in the investigation to stop for even a bag of crisps from the vending machine, which incidentally was what John ended up eating. Now his stomach had begun to feel uneasy, and he regretted the salt and grease. His head ached worse now than it had that morning and his entire body was sore. His throat was rough and his nose was running.

Sherlock was right. He was sick.

 _Of course Sherlock is right, he’s always bloody right,_ John thought begrudgingly, then set about wondering what detail had clued him in. Probably something like the viscosity of John’s snot in relation to sniffles indicating illness rather than allergies.

Lestrade, Henry, and Sherlock (accompanied by a livid-looking Major Barrymore) joined John soon after, their interrogations complete. John was relieved they’d finally be able to leave, when the door to the conference room opened and Doctor Stapleton stepped in, holding a clipboard. Barrymore looked up at her and stood. “We’re done here,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “They’re all yours.”

“What? For what?” Sherlock huffed, incredulous, eyes darting between the two of them.

Barrymore was smug. “It’s imperative we run more tests, to examine any long-term effects of the gas.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in aggravation he didn't even try to disguise. “There’s no need for more tests; you got everything you needed last night. We’ve already wasted time with this inquiry. I need access to Frankland’s lab, which I should have had hours ago.”

“Mr Holmes, you’ve been informed MULTIPLE TIMES that you will have NO access to ANYTHING on this base,” Barrymore fumed, and flushed an infuriated shade of red. “Your brother has assured me you will comply with any and all requirements we have of you, and if you do not, I am authorized to detain you for contempt.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw at the mention of Mycroft, and John could see the rage building quickly. This wouldn’t end well if it went any further.

“Sherlock,” John sighed wearily. “Let’s just get it over with and go home, all right?” He stepped closer and ducked his head near Sherlock’s ear, speaking so only he could hear. “There’s nothing Barrymore wants more than to throw you in a military cell, and I’m sure you don’t want give Mycroft the satisfaction either, right?”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared but after a moment his shoulders sank in frustrated resignation.

Doctor Stapleton looked from Sherlock to John, who nodded subtly to indicate she’d have no further fights and the situation was in control. “We’ll do our best to get you through this quickly. This way,” she said, turning toward the door and leading them out of the conference room.

The medical lab they were brought to was set up like a mini triage center at A&E. The room was square, with beds lining two opposing walls, facing each other, privacy curtains between each. A nurses station lay at one end near the door, and more doors along the far wall indicated an operating theater and a supplies room. White linoleum tile shone in the fluorescent lighting. The whole place smelled of antiseptic. 

Each man was ordered to the loo to provide a urine sample, then directed to a bed staffed with a military medic; Sherlock and Lestrade next to each other along one wall, Henry and John across the room facing them.

“Hi, Doctor … er Captain Watson,” the medic said, reading John’s name off of a clipboard. He was medium height and solid build, shaved head shiny as a cueball. He was professional but his smile seemed genuine. John liked him instantly. “Which would you prefer?”

“How about John?”

The medic smiled, a look that seemed natural to him. “All right, John. I’m Lieutenant Carlton, but you can call me Nick if you’d prefer. I’m just going to be running a few tests on you today, as I’m sure Doctor Stapleton explained. You can keep your trousers on, but I need your shirt off,” Nick informed him, preparing a syringe and vials for blood work. John noted the EKG leads on the tray.

The thought of removing his shirt and jumper was hateful to John, who was already freezing, but he reminded himself the faster they got this over with, the faster he’d be on his way back to his own bed. He grimaced as he stripped down, removing his jacket, thick wool jumper, purple button-up, and vest. He immediately started to shiver.

Carlton frowned and pulled a temporal thermometer from his pocket, and quickly ran it across John’s forehead until it beeped.

“Hmm … 38. That’s technically a fever.”

“Yeah, I think I’m coming down with a bit of a cold,” John said, clenching his fists and trying to stop the small tremors running through him.

Carlton nodded but his brow furrowed. He proceeded with the initial assessment tests, which returned results of slightly elevated blood pressure and pulse as well. John jumped at the cold stethoscope and shivered again as he took the requisite deep breaths. Carlton turned back to the tray, looking uneasy. “How long have you felt like you’re coming down with something?”

“I guess I really noticed it this morning when I woke up,” John said, realizing what conclusions that might draw when Carlton's eyes narrowed. “We’ve been out in the woods a lot these last few days, it’s been cold,” John started, then realized how much he sounded like a patient. The common cold wasn’t a result of _being_ cold, he’d known that since he was a kid. People got sick because of bacteria or viruses; only pneumonia could sometimes be attributed to cold conditions, and he knew he didn’t have that.

Carlton jotted something down on his clipboard. “What are your symptoms?”

“Just the typical … headache, body aches, chills, sore throat, runny nose. Nothing I haven’t been through a hundred times before.”

“Sure,” Carlton nodded as he continued to write. He placed the clipboard on the tray and turned back to John. “Let’s get these leads hooked up and then I’ll get you a blanket.”

“Ta,” John said, and tried to smile. His eyes drifted across the room. Unsurprisingly, Lestrade was peacefully submitting to similar treatment in his bed, and Sherlock radiated indignation from every pore in the bay beside him. 

Sherlock glared into the middle distance and clenched his jaw as his medic leaned over him to place the EKG pads on his smooth, alabaster chest. John was pleased to note that Sherlock’s ribs were a little less defined then they had been even six months ago. Sherlock wouldn’t admit it, but John knew that constantly pestering him to eat was at least partially responsible and resolved not to let up.

Sherlock snarled at the medic, and John ducked his head to try and catch Sherlock’s eyes, pursed his lips and gave him his most reprimanding look. With a resigned sigh, Sherlock looked away from John and after a moment, said something to the medic in a much nicer tone with the hint of a forced smile. She smiled back in surprise and stuck another lead to him. Sherlock looked back at John, raising his eyebrows in a silent _is that better?_ and John smiled and nodded once before Nick began decorating him in a similar fashion.  

Nick drew four vials of blood, then attached the EKG wires to the pads on John’s chest. He turned the EKG machine on, gathered the blood samples and his clipboard, and walked off, returning a few moments later with a thin hospital style blanket.

"Ta,” John replied, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as best as he could. It barely took the edge off, and John continued to shiver. 

Nick smiled at him warmly. “Just a few quick questions for you, Doctor Watson,” he said, adding a new set of pages to the clipboard. They went through the normal barrage of full name, birthdate, today’s date, and Prime Minister. John flew through them with ease. He followed Nick’s finger, then touched his own fingers to his nose with his eyes closed, like a sobriety test. His reflexes were checked, and his ears, nose, and throat inspected with an otoscope.

“Yeah, you’ve definitely got some inflammation starting,” Nick noted. “Can you briefly describe what you remember from last night?”

“Sure,” John began, but then stopped short. Images of a burning car, blood in the sand, leaking diesel. Men screaming, thick black smoke, fire and fear. Blue light rippling across Sherlock’s face, red laser lights dancing on his forehead. The weight of a bomb vest he’d been forced into, the cold sweat of terror running down his back under the stifling winter jacket. John’s pulse grew thunderous in his ears.

“Doctor Watson?” Lieutenant Carlton put his hand on John’s arm, and John flinched violently away from him, but then his vision cleared and he shook his head, reorienting himself. Nick stared intently at John’s eyes, checking his pupils, then looked back at the heart rate monitor, which had been inching toward alarm.

“Can you tell me what just happened there?” 

John blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, I …” he pursed his lips and looked down at his hands. He was speaking to a fellow soldier. He could be honest. If anyone would understand, it would be someone who knew the ins and outs of war zone combat.

He inhaled deeply and began again. “What happened at the minefield last night … the explosion … it brought back some things from … similar situations … active duty and ... ” John trailed off. What he’d seen in Afghanistan was enough. Nick didn’t need to hear about Moriarty.

“Ah,” Nick nodded. “That’s understandable. From what I hear it was pretty … catastrophic. I would be surprised if you _didn’t_ have that reaction. I’ve seen men be triggered by much less.”

John was grateful for the empathy.

“Let me get you some paracetamol and some water, and you can get a bit of rest, how does that sound? We’ll get the blood tests run and talk again in a bit. I think you lot will be staying a few more hours at least.”

“That’d be great, thank you,” John said, grimacing internally at the reaction that news would undoubtedly get out of Sherlock. With the curtain closed, John couldn’t see his friends anymore, but for the most part the room was hushed.

The idea of sleep was heavenly to John, except he was still absolutely freezing.

“I hate to be a pain, but is there any way I can put my clothes back on? I’m sort of in the chills stage of this thing and I could use the extra layers.”

Nick stood contemplating for a moment. “It’s against procedure, but I know these thin blankets don’t really help at all. You do understand if something were to happen to you, we’d have to cut it all off, right? You can’t get upset with us for ruining your favorite jumper in an emergency.”

“No, no of course not,” John agreed quickly, desperate for the warmth. He was due for some new shirts anyway, and Harry had given him a Marks & Spencer gift card for Christmas that he still hadn’t spent.

“Okay,” Nick agreed, and handed John his clothes and jacket, “let me know if you need any help. And let’s keep this between us. Stapleton’ll have my head!” he said with a wry smile.

“I really appreciate it,” John said as Nick ducked around the curtain in search of the promised paracetamol.

John dressed quickly, making sure the wires and EKG monitor were untangled where they now lay in his lap. Nick returned with the meds. Swallowing felt like sandpaper. 

Nick checked the EKG monitor. “One of the lines seems to have detached,” he said, frowning. “May I?” he gestured to John’s shirt. “It’s the highest lead, I can get it from the top.” John stretched his neck up a bit, and Nick reached down through John’s neckline to reclip the lead. As he drew his hand back, a drop of red landed on his gloved wrist. They both stared at it in surprise for a moment when another landed, and John realized his nose was bleeding. Nick grabbed a piece of gauze and held it out to John, frowning again. John held the gauze under his nose and pinched to stop the flow.

Nick pulled out his thermometer and ran it back across John’s forehead. “38.4,” he said, more to himself than to John.

“Well, the paracetamol will help with that,” John offered, and Nick hummed noncommittally. John checked the gauze. The bleeding had stopped already.

“Just get some rest. I’ll be back to check up on you in a bit.”

John lay back, closed his eyes, and was asleep in minutes.

 

* * *

 

Next to the nurses station, Sherlock lay in bed with his eyes closed, ready to do some mind palace spring cleaning to kill time. If he was going to be stuck on this miserable military base, he might as well make use of the wait. His mobile sat in his pocket, useless. There was no signal in this medical dungeon.

The privacy curtain had been drawn between Sherlock and Lestrade, and John and Henry’s curtains across the room were completely closed. He’d heard soft snoring coming from at least one of the beds at random intervals.

Since it had been so quiet, Sherlock was vaguely aware when voices started speaking on the surface as he worked through the clutter in his animal room, clearing out details of the murderous hounds that he now knew didn’t exist.

“Doctor Stapleton, can I get your opinion on something?” a male voice asked.

“Of course, Lieutenant, what is it?” replied a feminine one.

“I’m concerned about some of the symptoms Doctor Watson is exhibiting.”

Sherlock’s attention shifted quickly upon hearing John’s name, but he remained utterly still, keeping up the illusion of sleep as the doctors spoke, oblivious to the fact that they had an eavesdropper.

There was a rustle of papers. “Flu-like symptoms?” Stapleton questioned.

“Yes, and just now a bloody nose.” Sherlock concluded the man must be John’s medic.

“Not all that odd this time of year,” Stapleton countered. “How is he now?”

“Resting. His fever has gone up in the hour he’s been here. It’s currently at 38.4. I gave him paracetamol and he’s going to try and sleep.”

“None of the others are exhibiting any symptoms at all. I can’t think of an airborne hallucinogen that incites delayed fevers and flu symptoms. It’s possible he’s just caught this year’s bug.”

“He had a bit of a dissociative episode too, and I looked in his NHS charts; he’s been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Said the situation last night triggered it.”

Sherlock tried not to frown. He had known something was off with John last night: the elevated heart rate and the thousand yard-stare. Why hadn’t he realized the explosion would prompt John’s PTSD? Of course it would. 

“Yes, I witnessed it last night as well.” Stapleton replied. “He struggled to get his heart rate and BP back to normal.” She sighed. “I’d like to keep them a few more hours anyway. Coordinate with the medical team and the lab, let them know Doctor Watson’s symptoms, and we’ll keep an eye out for the others … see what develops. We’ll know more when the blood work gets back. But it’s possible he’s just a little under the weather and a little overwhelmed with what happened to Frankland.”

Footsteps moved off in different directions. The conversation was over.

Sherlock replayed every symptom John had exhibited these past few hours, and took inventory of his own body looking for anything similar. He felt perfectly fine. If John had been exposed to the gas at 3pm yesterday and was showing symptoms this morning at 9am, Sherlock should be feeling at least something by now, accounting for the delay in exposure.

He headed back to his mind palace. Time to get out everything he had on the delayed effects of airborne hallucinogens.


	2. Chapter 2

It was nearly an hour later when Sherlock heard the medical ward door click open. He still had his eyes closed, and had been furiously tearing his mind palace apart for anything that might be useful. He’d heard someone pull the curtain closed around his bed and when he opened his eyes he saw the light had been dimmed. They must have thought he was sleeping.

From the other side of the curtain, a quiet voice: “Doctor Stapleton, I have the blood test results for you.” Sherlock quickly cataloged what he could: male, mid-thirties, Irish accent … possibly from Dublin.

“Thank you, Captain MacDonnell. Anything of note?”

“Yes, we’re going to need to take Watson and run more tests. His blood work is showing non-specific signs of an acute infection, and the leucocyte levels point more to a viral infection than anything else. Identifying it will require more time. Could be a regular bug, but I think we should err on the side of caution. Plenty of viruses can cause mild meningeal irritation, and he mentioned he’s got a significant headache and we've seen some neurological cognitive symptoms. Whatever it is, it seems to be advancing at a pretty explosive rate. It could still be the flu, but we can’t afford to risk that it’s something else, can we?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to jump from his bed, pull back the curtain, and start demanding answers. It took everything in him to remain still and quiet. He tried to ignore the nauseous feeling swirling in his guts and focus on the information being shared.

“He presented with flu-like symptoms this afternoon when we got here,” Stapleton’s voice was laden with worry. “According to Lieutenant Carlton, he’s been getting worse. Let’s get a few more panels, a head CT, and if need be, a spinal tap. I’ll have the Lieutenant get an IV started so we can start moving fluids while we figure out a treatment plan.”

Sherlock’s mind was racing. If John had some sort of mystery disease, there was no way they were staying here for treatment. Sherlock pulled out his phone and cursed when he saw _“No Service”_ in the upper corner of the screen. As much as he loathed asking Mycroft for help, in this situation hesitation never even occurred to Sherlock. He needed to get John to a real medical facility with qualified doctors, not this military shop of horrors staffed with Doctor Frankensteins.

“Where is he now?” the Irish voice asked.

“He’s sleeping in bay two. Do you want to get him?”

“No, let me go and get radiology ready first, I’ll be back for him soon.” There were footsteps, the beep of a key card, and the door clicked open and closed.

Sherlock slid off the bed quietly, and grabbed his folded shirt off the bedside table. If he were ill, they would know by now. As it stood, not a single symptom presented itself, and from what he knew, Lestrade and Henry were also alright. Sherlock needed to get out of this ward, get to a place where he could get mobile reception, and call Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

Doctor Stapleton flipped through the files Captain MacDonnell had brought in. Even Henry’s bloodwork showed no significant anomalies. The most noteworthy thing between the Detective Inspector, Henry Knight, and Sherlock Holmes seemed to be that the latter man had a slight Vitamin D deficiency and the DI’s cholesterol was mildly elevated.

But Doctor Watson’s bloodwork … a mildly elevated C-Reactive Protein level indicated inflammation, and his white blood cell differential count was shifted towards favouring lymphocytes. A generalised viral PCR test had come back positive, and glossy prints now showed strangely-shaped virus molecules captured by an electron microscope which had been used to further investigate the findings. Platelet levels were low.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, trying to take in the new information and decide what to do next. If Watson had an unknown virus, they’d need to quarantine him until it could be identified. It was likely too early for significant antibodies to have been formed, which means that they’d have to isolate the virus itself. The staff should switch to medical hazmat suits and follow isolation procedures.

Doctor Stapleton turned to pick up the phone to get the medical isolation unit prepared and more staff to assist, but a shrill beeping from an EKG stopped her. She listened for a moment to be sure, but she already knew; it was coming from bay two, where Doctor Watson was sleeping.

 

* * *

 

The pain in John’s head was the first thing he noticed as he woke, followed by the thundering of his pulse. The deafening beat was underlined by a high pitched whine deep in his ears, making everything else seem hollow and silent. Wincing, John struggled to open his eyes against the harsh white of his unfamiliar surroundings. He squinted, but everything was washed out, swathed in a bright, blinding haze.

He covered his eyes with his hand, trying to massage away the throbbing behind his eyes, and think. Why did his head hurt so much? How did he get here? Where was Sherlock?

From somewhere nearby: a voice with a familiar Irish lilt.

**_Moriarty._ **

Pain forgotten, John forced his eyes open and struggled to make out his surroundings. A locker room. Again. John’s stomach dropped.

He was sitting on a bench in some sort of large changing cubicle, privacy curtain drawn closed. Aside from the voices, everything was quiet. The smell of chlorine and damp made him nauseous. John held his breath and fought to listen over the pounding of his own heart.

“... need to take Watson ...” Moriarty stated.

A female voice replied, so hushed John could only make out a few words; “He’s sleeping … get him …?”

Moriarty said something John couldn’t make out, then, “I’ll be back for him soon.”

John couldn’t listen to anything else. He needed to get out of there, now. He moved to stand and felt a tug. Panic seized him as he saw a wire — no, multiple wires coming out from the bottom of his shirt, connected to a small digital box, covered in blinking lights.

John’s stomach dropped, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. Moriarty had strapped him to another bomb. Images of rippling water, a thick green parka, flashing blue lights and red sniper sights overwhelmed him.

He moved to touch the wires and stopped his shaking fingers millimeters before contact. It was too risky. Instead, he gathered the necklines of his shirts, and pulled them away slowly, so he could look down at his bare chest. Five pads connected the wires to John, three of them surrounding his heart, which was now hammering as panic started to take over.

He couldn’t remember how he got here. Where was Sherlock?

Suddenly, the small box began to alarm. John scrambled off the bench, holding it lightly. Horror washed over him. Was this it? Was it going to go off now? His chest was tight; he couldn’t breathe.

The last time they had nabbed him on the way to Sarah’s. He’d cut through an alley to bypass a construction zone, and found himself with a huge arm around his chest and a pungent rag covering his mouth and nose. He’d woken up in the pool locker room with Moriarty’s voice in his ear. “Wakey, wakey Johnny-boy! It’s almost showtime! Our guest of honor will be here any minute.”

Footsteps approached rapidly, and the cubicle curtain was thrown open before John could react.

A woman in a lab coat stared at him, shocked. No doubt one of Moriarty’s minions. “Doctor Watson? What —”

John cut her off, chest heaving. “Get it off me!” His voice was a quiet shaking rasp, though he felt like screaming. The box continued its shrill alarm.

Her eyes went wide. She spoke to him slowly, calmly. “Get…what off you?”

“THE BOMB!” John yelled, thrusting the shrieking digital box at her. She put her hands up in defense but wouldn’t take it. “GET IT OFF ME _NOW_!”

“Doctor Watson, it's alright.” The woman was taking slow steps backward, as if John wouldn’t notice she was getting ready to run. “It’s not a bomb, it’s an EKG —“

Suddenly two of Moriarty’s men were with them in the locker room.

“What’s going on in here?” one of them demanded. He was bald and strongly built, and looked familiar but John couldn’t place him. Maybe he was one of his captors the last time they did this song and dance? It wasn’t important now.

Still juggling the bomb in one hand, John grabbed the woman in the lab coat with more strength than he knew he had and pulled her back up against him, arm wrapped around her throat in a hold he’d learned in combat training. He could merely cut off circulation and knock her out, or take more drastic measures, break her neck, and kill her. Her hands clawed uselessly at his forearms. He barely even felt it.

“STAY BACK OR I’LL KILL HER!” He screamed, but two more men had stepped forward now, one with grey hair and a tall man with dark hair. Hands reached out to try and placate him, saying his name in gentle but urgent tones. With the whining in his head and the screaming alarm it was all too much.

The bald man spoke up. “Doctor Watson, we just need you to calm down. It’s alright, whatever you think is happening is just in your head right now. We’re not in Afghanistan, we’re in England—”

“I _know_ we’re not in bloody Afghanistan,” John seethed through clenched teeth. “They don’t have aquatic centers in war zones.”

The bald man’s face crinkled in confusion, his mouth hanging open for a moment as if he was unsure what to say. Finally, he continued. “Okay, John. It’s okay. You’re completely safe, no one is going to hurt you. Let’s just talk about this. Let Doctor Stapleton go and we’ll talk.”

“Talk?!” John laughed bitterly. “You never feel like talking before you kidnap me and cover me in explosives, do you?”

He held the blaring, blinking box up in front of his hostage, careful to leave slack in the length of the wires connecting him to it. Trembling, teeth clenched, he spoke directly into her ear. “You are going to dismantle this thing right now, or go up in flames with me. Choose wisely.”

She reached out and took the box with shaking hands, and quickly silenced the alarm. Turning it over, she pulled the colored wires out quickly and they fell to dangle at Johns’ feet. The absence of the noise was like an instant salve in John’s head. He scooped up the hanging cables and yanked, barely noticing the burn as some of the pads ripped away chest hair. He threw them to the side, toward one of Moriarty’s men, who flinched away at the sudden movement. No one spoke.

The quiet was quickly broken by a thin, dark-haired man with a public school accent. “John,” he said quietly, and something about his voice tickled a spot deep in John’s head like an itch. “John, where do you think you are?” 

“Think? I bloody well know, I’m back at the bloody pool where you tried to blow us up last time!”

There was silence for a moment and the thin man exchanged a look with the grey-haired man standing next to him. “John,” he continued, “do you know who I am? Do you recognize me?”

“Don’t try to distract me,” John hissed, eyes darting between all the unfamiliar faces. The bald man was the only one he could ever remember seeing before; he hadn’t gotten a good look at his captors the first time.

“I’m not going to be your bait again. I’ll not let you lure Sherlock into another horrific trap, and I’m certainly not going to die as a pawn in this bloody game you two play. I’m leaving here and she’s coming with me,” he said jerking the woman closer to himself, tightening his hold again. He couldn’t tell which of them was trembling harder.

“John, I _am_ Sherlock,” the thin man said, taking a slow step forward, hands raised non-threateningly.

“NO! STAY BACK!” John said, turning quickly to look for the exit.

Behind him to his right. He had a clear path. He turned back to his captors. “I swear if you take one more step I will snap her neck like a _TWIG_. You think I don’t know my own best friend? Whatever your game is, I’m not playing.”

“All right, okay, I’m sorry,” the thin man stepped back to his original place. “We just want to help you, John, you’re ill, you aren’t thinking straight—”

The nagging in his head was unbearable now. Something about the thin man’s voice stuck in his head. It was pulling at him somehow, a shadowy familiarity that coiled through John like smoke, shapeless and impossible to grab, to form into a meaningful shape.

“SHUT UP!” John yelled as he backed toward the door, keeping the woman held tightly to him. She whimpered but moved with him, showing little resistance. “All of you — on the ground RIGHT NOW.”

The men exchanged glances but no one moved.

The dark haired man tried again: “John—”

John jerked his arm back and his captive let out a startled cry. “ON THE GROUND. NOW.”

Slowly, they sank to their knees, and lay down on their stomachs.

“Hands behind your heads!” John’s back was at the door now. The men complied, but kept their eyes on him.

Without turning, John looked behind him at the door, pushing the crash bar, but the door didn’t open. He tried again. And again. His stomach dropped. He was trapped. His eyes darted around the room for another exit, but the only other doors in the room were labeled “Operating Theatre” and “Supplies.”

 _What is an operating theatre doing in a pool?_ But there wasn’t time to dwell on it, the answer didn’t matter, and John doubted either of those had an exit. Suddenly, the woman in his arms gasped.

“Needs … a … key” she managed.

“What? What key?” he growled into her ear.

Slowly, she moved one of her shaking hands from his forearm, and patted at her pocket until her fingers found her name badge. She pulled to unclip it, and held it out to him. He grabbed it from her, and stared at it, unable to comprehend what he was supposed to do with it.

“I can … show you …” she wheezed, and he let up his hold a little, then spun her toward the door, keeping his head turned to watch the men, who remained on the floor. The woman took the key back and swiped it through a machine next to the door. The lights on the box turned green and ACCESS GRANTED illuminated the screen. There was an audible click, and John pushed back against the door. This time, the crash bar gave way and the door opened, but as John looked back up at the screen again, his eyes landed on a huge red button labeled EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN right beside it.

It would only take the men moments to get to their feet and hit that button once he left. John had a strange memory of red flashing lights, a loud alarm, and doors bolting shut. He’d never get out if they got to that button.

John grabbed the key from the woman, and after a moment of hesitation, allowed the door to close again.

He looked to the men on the floor, three of whom were still watching him. The fourth, who had flinched when John threw the cables, had been quiet and almost afraid the whole time, and lay with his head resting to the side, eyes closed tightly.

“You! On the end!” John shouted, and the man looked up timidly. “On your feet!”

“Doctor W-Watson … please ...” he stammered nervously.

“Shut it!” John spat. “Go open that utilities closet.”

He ducked his head and walked hesitantly to the closet. He tried the door handle and ACCESS DENIED flashed on the screen next to the door. He turned to look back at John, terrified.

“It’s locked.”

“Well UNLOCK IT!”

“I … I don’t have a key,” the man protested, helplessly.

John had no doubt the card in his hands would work, but he didn’t want to risk putting Moriarty’s men between himself and the room’s only exit. John turned to the three men on the ground. “Who else has a key?” There was silence. John gave the woman in his arms a yank, and she let out a choked cry. “I know someone else has a key. I suggest you find it NOW.”

Finally, the bald man held up his hand. “I have one.”

“Go on then. Open it.”

The bald man pushed to stand and walked quickly to the door, swiping his card through the reader. ACCESS GRANTED flashed green on the screen and he opened the door. John could see straight into the closet, from his place by the door. It was a large room, from what he could see, about 4 meters square, shelves with boxes lining the walls on three sides with a table in the middle.

“Alright,” John whispered to himself, then more loudly to the group, “Alright … put your key on the ground, go inside, and get down on your knees facing the back wall, hands on your head.”

The bald man looked back at him, and at the two men still on the floor. “Doctor Watson, you're not thinking clearly, please let us—”

“GET IN THE CLOSET OR I SWEAR I WILL KILL HER!” John screamed, the rage and fear he’d been wrestling with suddenly uncontrolled. The woman was whimpering now, fingers digging into his forearm desperately. He wondered how long she had been doing that. He barely noticed.

“Alright … okay …” the bald man said quietly, then walked into the closet and knelt with his hands on his head.

“You next,” John said, gesturing to the timid man, who provided no protest and joined the bald man quickly.

John made eye contact with the silver-haired man, and gestured with his chin. He stood and opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t want to hear it!” John seethed, and the man closed his mouth and sighed, pursing his lips. John’s heart felt like it would burst from his chest with the force of its furious beating. The silver-haired man joined his friends in the supplies closet.

“Your turn, posh boy. Don’t try anything stupid.”

“John, I need you to look at me,” the thin man begged as he stood. “Really, _really_  look at me.”

John’s laugh was cold and bitter. “Trust me, I’m watching you like a hawk,” he said, even as his eyes darted between the three hostages in the closet and his current standoff. “You’re going to join your mates in that room and I’m going to leave, and you’re going to tell your boss that I’m not going to be used to lure Sherlock into whatever sick, twisted ambush you have planned. Tell him that the next time he should just kill me on sight because I’m not playing these bloody games anymore!”

The thin man flinched, eyes pained but expression still desperate to get John’s attention. “Please, John—”

“GET. IN THE CLOSET. _NOW.”_ John rasped through clenched teeth, and gave the woman another squeeze. She cried out, and the thin man’s eyes widened, and he nodded and slowly walked to the closet, kneeling with the others.

John edged forward with his hostage, quickly glancing inside the closet doorway. No key card access or lockdown button on the inside. ACCESS GRANTED still shone brightly on the keycard panel outside the door. Sweat ran down John’s forehead, around his eyebrows.

“How do I lock it?” He growled into the woman’s ear.

“You have to ... swipe the card ... once the door is ... closed,” she gasped.

Without another word, John shoved her roughly into the room, slammed the door shut, and ran the card through the magnetic reader. The panel blinked red: SECURE.

He bolted across the room to the locker room exit, swiped the card again, threw the door open, and ran as fast as he could down the hallway, desperate to escape the pool.

 

* * *

 

The corridor seemed to stretch forever with few doors in sight. Those that were there needed keycards for access, and the card John had taken from his hostage flashed ACCESS DENIED and made a horrible negative sound at all of them.

As John rounded a corner, skidding a little on the tile, that high-pitched hollow whine laced through his head, louder now, like a needle piercing through John’s brain from ear to ear. Dizziness overwhelmed him and his vision greyed at the edges. He felt his feet stumble and his shoulder collided with the wall, before the fog lifted and he was able to right himself and keep going.

Ahead, like a miracle, a door propped open, labeled LOADING DOCK.

John quickly poked his head in, and heard voices, but saw no one. He ducked inside and gently guided the door closed, hoping the click of the latch wasn’t audible to the people on either side. Three large military lorries were backed up to the platform John stood on, and beyond them, an open yard. John lay panting with his back against the wall for a moment, straining over his thundering heart to listen for sounds of people chasing him.

He had no idea what he would do if they found him. Without his hostage he was powerless, and he had no weapons. His gun was packed away in his bag in the car, and he had nothing on him he could use to defend himself otherwise.

If they caught him again and strapped more explosives to him … he’d just have to try and take as many out with him as he could. He wouldn’t let Moriarty use him to kill Sherlock. He was done playing that game.

The voices in the loading dock were getting louder now, moving around the trucks by the sound of it.

“Are you all packed up, Lewis?” a deep gravelly voice rang out.

“Ready and raring to go!” a young, Scottish one replied.

The truck in front of John roared to life, and John quickly glanced inside. The trucks were covered by stretched tarpaulin, secured with straps over a wire frame roof. The back liftgates secured the main part of the truck bed, but they were still open to the elements between the tarp roof and the liftgate. John could see large wooden crates filled the back with a narrow space down the middle of the bed.

“This is all heading to the Merrivale range?”

“Aye, and one to Willsworthy as well,” a female voice this time, all business.

“Agh. Tell those lazy bastards to come get it themselves next time!” the gruff voice grumbled, then they all broke out in laugher.

Just as the truck started to move, John deftly stepped over the liftgate and into the truck, and dropped to lay flat against the floor behind the crates. Merrivale sounded familiar, but he couldn’t remember why. Still, at this point, John wasn’t picky. Anywhere that wasn’t here was good enough for him.

He could feel the adrenaline fading now that he had a bit of a reprieve. His muscles ached as they were finally allowed to relax, and a wave of nausea and chills hit him like a brick wall. Of all the times to catch the flu, of course John would come down with it in the middle of fleeing from the world’s most dangerous psychopath with a vendetta against his flatmate.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of the utility closet door slamming shut made Henry jump. Doctor Stapleton leaned against the table in the middle of the room, catching her breath, trying to regain her composure. Her eyes were shiny with tears but she did not allow them to fall. She inhaled shakily and rubbed her throat.

“Doctor Stapleton, are you all right?” Nick asked, quickly standing up and moving to her side, assessing her for injuries the same way John had done for Sherlock countless times.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, attempting a weak smile. Nick gingerly moved her shirt collar aside to check for bruising, but found none, just splotchy redness that was already fading.

“What the _hell_ was that all about?” Lestrade demanded, as Henry helped pull him to his feet.

“John’s caught some sort of mystery virus, and it seems paranoid hallucinations and aggression are a side effect,” Sherlock replied over his shoulder as he tried the door handle just in case. It didn’t budge. “Initially, I would have dismissed it as some pedestrian flu, but the fact that it’s got Stapleton worried must mean that there’s more to it than that.” The door had a small window at eye level, about one foot square glass reinforced with wire. Sherlock looked out at the deserted medical ward for a moment, then spun to assess the room, hunting for something they could use to their advantage.

Doctor Stapleton gaped at him. “You knew he was ill and didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing about his initial symptoms seemed alarming,” Sherlock replied, annoyed, inspecting and pushing aside boxes on the nearest shelving unit. “I could effortlessly eavesdrop on you talking about his blood test results. You really need to mind your attention to patient confidentiality. We need to get out of here and stop him before he gets hurt.” _Or killed,_ Sherlock’s mind unhelpfully added.

“Or he hurts someone else!” Doctor Stapleton bit back, affronted. “He’s obviously physically capable of injuring others.”

“He could have taken you with him but he didn’t,” Sherlock countered, words rapid and livid as he turned to address Doctor Stapleton. “He could have _killed_ you but he didn’t. John used you for leverage and then left you essentially unharmed, as he did with the rest of us. He’s obviously ill and now evidently delirious. He thought _he_ was the hostage, and his only concern right now is escape. Now he’s running, _terrified and hallucinating_ on a military base covered with heavily-armed soldiers who are unaware of his condition. The only one in danger at this point is _John_.”

Stapleton sighed and then nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’m still … just a little shaken. But it’s true, he’s ill; he’s not thinking clearly. He was in the throes of a completely-dissociative episode. He didn’t recognize any of us, or where he was at all.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, accepting her admission, then turned back and resumed his frantic inventory of the shelves. Nasal cannulas, emesis basins, IV tubing, antiseptic wipes, nitrile gloves. Nothing useful for escape.

Lestrade rubbed his hands over his face, then turned to Sherlock. “He thought he was back at that pool with Moriarty, didn’t he?”

“It would appear so,” Sherlock said quietly, remembering the trauma of that night: the painful shock in those few moments he thought John had betrayed him, then the cold fear that hit him like a ton of bricks when John had pulled the parka open to reveal the blinking bomb vest. He’d come so close to losing John that night, either by explosion and bullets, and though the whole thing had ended abruptly and without bloodshed, the high they usually got from the thrill of danger seemed to elude them afterward. The days following were oddly subdued, quiet, almost … desaturated. Sherlock knew John hadn’t slept well for weeks after, and Sherlock only avoided as many nightmares of his own because he simply refused to sleep until it was unavoidable.  

At the end, they’d silently agreed to die together if it meant stopping Moriarty and saving anyone else who might fall into his clutches. John had nodded at Sherlock’s silent question, and he’d turned to train the gun on the vest by the side of the pool. A phone call had saved them, or at least postponed the showdown until another day.

But before that, Moriarty had kidnapped John, incapacitated him, and could have killed him outright if Jim hadn’t felt like using John to play games with Sherlock instead. He’d outfitted John in a bomb vest for no other reason than sick amusement. He’d had snipers ready to shoot John through the heart. All of those horrible visions, the unthinkable things that Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about, the endings to the life of John Watson that thankfully never came to be, made him simultaneously want to push John far away and keep him even nearer.

Sherlock never dreamed he’d have an amenable colleague, let alone a flatmate who didn’t leave after the first month. Surely never a friend. He’d engineered his life around assumed solitude, and kept people at length on purpose. He enjoyed the control of selfishness; only worrying about himself, his own emotions, his own well-being. He liked being able to predict people’s reactions to him accurately.

Even after extensively studying people his whole life, he could never relate to the sentiments of others beyond a basic cause-and-effect relationship. It was incredibly helpful in determining human nature in relation to cases, but he rarely made the leap in applying those trivialities to his own life, and never had any reason to.

Until John Watson limped into the lab at St. Bart’s and changed everything.

John who admired his brilliance and guided him through his awkward (and often inappropriate) behaviors without embarrassing or insulting him. John, who forced him to eat and bandaged him up when he got knocked around, and who laughed with Sherlock and blogged their adventures, and who hadn’t hesitated to die so Sherlock could live. Brave, loyal, selfless John, who had grabbed his madman captor and been prepared to go up in flames without a second thought, while ordering Sherlock to run and save himself.

The weight of that earnestly-offered sacrifice was staggering.

Suddenly, Sherlock cared about someone besides himself. He cared about John’s emotions and well being, in a way that was foreign and frightening and wonderful at the same time. With John there, 221b wasn’t just a flat, it was a home. Sherlock wasn’t just a mind for hire, or some eccentric _freak_ to John, he was a person. It was almost as if Sherlock had been unaware of that fact himself, until he was able to see himself through the eyes of his blogger. He found himself thinking of John at random times during the day, wondering what his opinion would be on certain aspects of a case, or what he’d like to eat for dinner that night, or if he should grab some of John’s laundry to throw in with his own. He was mindful of the time when they travelled together and shared a room, not needing sleep himself but knowing John did. He’d exchanged Christmas gifts with someone (who wasn’t Mycroft, Mummy, or Daddy) for the first time in his _life_.

Since they’d become flatmates, Sherlock had uncovered a part of himself he hadn’t felt comfortable revealing to others. There was no reason to uphold the image of being a sociopath when they were alone, and John had learned to see right through it anyway. When John was upset, Sherlock felt angry on his behalf. When John was happy, Sherlock found he was also content. When John broke up with his girlfriends… well… Sherlock was relieved, and vaguely victorious (although he’d never admit it to John, even after he’d been accused of as much). Seeing the world with the help of John Watson was like putting on a pair of glasses after a lifetime of thinking everything was supposed to be blurry.

And so when John had been prepared to die for him, Sherlock had been overcome with gratitude at the grandness of the gesture, but moreover, sick at the thought. A life without John wasn’t one worth living. Now that he’d seen how things could be, how he could feel, and what it was like to be cared for, he couldn’t imagine going back to the way his life was before. The prospect of returning to his old façade of chosen alienation was abhorrent and scary.

“I had an … episode like that,” Henry spoke, breaking Sherlock from his reverie. “It was if I had just woken up but I was already running through a field, the hound right at my back, snapping at my heels. I tried to stop it … I shot at it …” his eyes flicked up to meet Lestrade’s at the admission, then back down again as quickly. He took a deep breath and continued. “It was so real, just … SO REAL.” He paused, eyes unfocused, expression haunted. “But it wasn’t real at all. I almost … I almost killed Doctor Mortimer. One moment I was in the field, the next I was in her house, and I almost killed her.” Henry’s voice broke on the last words and he winced in horror at the memory. There was silence for a moment, then he closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to clear away the thoughts.

“My point is,” he started again, looking around the room to make eye contact with them each in turn, “there was no doubt in my mind what I was experiencing was truly happening, and no one could have convinced me otherwise. It was terrifying.”

“But you’re not sick, are you?” Lestrade asked Henry, then turned to address Stapleton. “Henry doesn’t have what John has, does he?”

“No,” Doctor Stapleton replied, “It seems the rest of you are completely healthy. But it’s possible that whatever Doctor Watson is infected with is prolonging or exacerbating the hallucinogenic effects of the gas.”

“This isn’t important right now!” Sherlock yelled, frustrated. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, his stomach a pit of nerves. The fact that John was sick was bad enough, but to know he could be laying dead, riddled with bullets after a disoriented run-in with any soldier at this godforsaken compound made him dizzy with horror. “We can worry about all of that once we find him. Right now our only concern is getting out of this closet and getting to John before he encounters anyone else. We’ve already been in here, what… almost two minutes? Three? He’s had a massive head start; he could be anywhere by now.”

“Can we break down the door?” Lestrade asked, peering around Sherlock to assess the obstacle.

“It’s reinforced steel and it opens inwards. Even if all five of us tried, I doubt it would budge.” Sherlock let out a frustrated hiss of breath, then turned to Nick and Lestrade. “Does anyone have reception on their mobile?”

“Mine’s with my jumper out in the room,” Lestrade said with an apologetic look.

Henry pulled his out and shook his head.

“We don’t carry personal phones while we’re working -- too much of a risk to confidentiality,” Nick added. “I usually carry a radio, but my unit has been full of static for about a week, and I was supposed to be getting another later today. I didn’t even bother with it this morning.”

Sherlock gripped his hair and let out an infuriated shout.

“Captain MacDonnell should be back soon, or one of the other medics,” Doctor Stapleton said hopefully.

The waiting was hateful.

 

* * *

 

Nearly five minutes had passed by the time Captain MacDonnell finally returned to take John to the radiology lab, and instead found a closet full of frantic hostages.

Sherlock nearly trampled him as he burst out of the room, followed by Lestrade, Henry, and Nick. Doctor Stapleton paused to fill him in.

“We have to put the base on lockdown, and make sure everyone knows not to use lethal force to detain him. He’s unarmed and I think more than anything, he’s scared.”

“A code grey?” MacDonnell clarified, moving toward the phone at the nurses station.

“To be honest, I had been about to quarantine him right before this all happened, so we should probably call a code pink too,” she said shaking her head. “What an absolute mess.”

The captain picked up the handset and began barking orders, as Doctor Stapleton ran to catch up with Nick and the others.

 

* * *

 

After splitting up from Nick and Henry in an attempt to cover more ground, Sherlock and Lestrade had just made it outside when the alarms started going off. Red lights flashed in time with blaring sirens, and behind them, the door into the building bolted closed. Throughout the yard before them, soldiers rushed to action, securing their posts, closing gates, and calling out directions to their subordinates. Several had their heads ducked to listen to their radios, but their eyes still scanned the area rapidly, searching for the cause of the lockdown.

Suddenly, yelling erupted from outside the main entryway.

A utility truck, stopped just outside of the gate to the base. As the driver and passenger doors opened, a small form in a black jacket quickly scrambled over the back gate of the truck, and fell to the pavement below, landing hard on his backside before rising quickly and running from the truck at breakneck speed. He tore along the high barbed wire fences enclosing the compound, back toward the forest and Dewer’s Hollow.

_John._

Sherlock took off toward the fence, barely aware that Lestrade was keeping pace beside him. They came up to the inner chainlink barricade, maybe 15 feet away from John, a second fence between them. Sherlock screamed, desperation pouring from his mouth in the form of John’s name, but John didn’t even flinch as he ran past. The truck drivers were close on his heels now, and Sherlock could see John’s eyes were full of panic, almost animalistic. Others were yelling too, with no effect.

Sherlock gripped the chainlink, ready to climb, but Lestrade grabbed his arm and forced Sherlock to look up. Both fence tops were covered in coils and rows of barbed wire. It would take too long and be too dangerous.

An upswell in the shouting turned their attention to John again. He’d paused for the briefest moment, cast a glance back over his shoulder at his pursuers, then hopped over a set of waist-high wires, and kept running.

Sherlock was overwhelmed with horror as the realization hit him: John had entered the minefield. The same minefield that had blown Robert Frankland to ashes not even 24 hours ago. And he was tearing through it like a bat out of hell.

“Oh my God, _no_ ,” Lestrade whispered beside him.

It was as if Sherlock’s lungs forgot how to breathe and his heart forgot how to beat as dread wrapped itself around him, cold and crushing. Aside from the blaring alarm, which seemed hollow and far away now, the base was otherwise silent, dozens of still eyes locked on John as he raced across the field. No one moved; no one called out; everyone just stood, waiting for the inevitable.

Sherlock couldn’t tell if John was oblivious to where he was, or simply so desperate and afraid of being captured that he didn’t care. His feet flew through the grass, never pausing, never deviating from his straight path to the woods. He was halfway through the minefield now. Each second felt to Sherlock like a lifetime spent suffering through evisceration.

Sherlock’s mind was empty of rational thought, flooded with one simple word: _No no no no no no no._

“Someone … someone has to stop him … we have to stop him.” Lestrade’s voice was quiet, mechanical and detached. They both knew it was hopeless. The situation was so delicate, and John was so volatile. No one could safely go in after him.

All they could do was look on in horror.

Sherlock wanted to bury his head and hide from the scene before him. He didn’t want to watch his best friend die, but he couldn’t look away. The irony that John was running from a perceived bomb through a pasture full of real ones made Sherlock want to retch.

Any moment, John Watson would cease to be. He’d exist one minute, and then in an instant he would be gone, wiped from the earth so completely that Sherlock wouldn’t even have a body to bury. A flash of light and heat and noise would consume him, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop it. Every wonderful thing that made John _John_ would be snuffed out by a cruel universe which didn’t understand how important he was to Sherlock. How utterly _vital_.

Miraculously, the blast never came.

John reached the end of the minefield at the forest, and leapt over the wire to safety. He threw another glance back over his shoulder, and finally realizing no one was chasing him anymore, paused to catch his breath for a moment, then disappeared into the tree-line.


	4. Chapter 4

John was still alive. Somehow he’d run hundreds of metres through a gauntlet of nearly inevitable death and _survived_.

Lestrade’s hand was on Sherlock’s arm again. “Breathe, Sherlock, you’ve got to breathe.” Lestrade was panting as if he’d just run a race himself; relief and disbelief tinged his words. “He made it. The bloody bastard just took a solid year off my life, but he made it.”

Sherlock inhaled shakily, then bent double as the world tilted. Dizzying relief overwhelmed him, and he found himself gasping for air as adrenaline coursed through him.

The spell on the base was broken.

People were yelling now, gearing up and mobilizing. Sherlock took one last steadying breath and straightened.

Doctor Stapleton and Major Barrymore were striding toward them quickly. Behind them, a dozen soldiers were donning gas masks.

“You need to tell your men he’s ill and not thinking clearly,” Sherlock called to them as they approached, his mind racing as he tried to plan around his worry.

Barrymore’s mouth twisted a little, a thinly veiled expression of irritation at Sherlock once again giving _him_ orders. “We’re assembling search and rescue teams.  They’re being briefed now. They know that Captain Watson is infected with an unknown virus that is making him delusional, and that he may be combative but he is unarmed. They’re preparing to retrieve him safely and bring him back for medical treatment.”

“He’s going to be terrified of them if they’re wearing those masks. If John was contagious, the Detective Inspector and I would be showing signs of the virus too, but our bloodwork is clean, isn’t it, Doctor Stapleton?”

She pursed her lips, not wanting to feed into another brewing argument between Barrymore and Sherlock. “It’s best to take all the precautions we can until we know more,” she replied, sidestepping the question.

It wasn’t the answer that Sherlock wanted, but now wasn’t the time to argue. With every moment that passed, John disappeared further into the forest, and it was almost nightfall. “I’m going, too,” Sherlock announced, in a tone that allowed for no argument. He turned toward Lestrade expectantly.

“Yeah, of course,” Lestrade agreed, and they turned toward the exit gate, where radios were being checked and field packs loaded. Sherlock pulled up short, holding a hand out to stop Lestrade when he saw guns being distributed to the search party as well.

Panic gripped Sherlock, and he spun back toward Barrymore. “Why do they have guns? They won’t need guns! You said they know he’s unarmed and they’ll catch him safely!”

“They’re _tranquilizer_ guns,” Barrymore stated, voice hard as steel. “If he won’t come with us voluntarily -- and from what we just witnessed, he _won’t_ \-- we can apprehend him without much struggle.”

“No, you are _NOT_ to hurt him. I can --”

“It’ll be much less painful than being taken by force. My marksmen are incredibly skilled, a tranquilizer is an easy, quick way—”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Sherlock yelled, taking a step closer to the Major in challenge. The guards around them tensed at the threat, half a dozen more eyes suddenly scrutinizing the situation. Barrymore flexed his jaw and glared unblinking at Sherlock who glared right back.

John was already scared to death and now they were going to be _firing guns_ at him? It was monstrous.

Lestrade put his hand out to calm Sherlock and stop him from advancing further, then turned his attention to Barrymore. “How do you know this … mystery virus won’t react badly with a tranquilizer?” he asked evenly, trying to infuse the situation with calm. He looked to Doctor Stapleton when Barrymore stayed silent and refused to break eye contact with Sherlock.

“We don’t,” Stapleton admitted. She looked overwhelmed and exhausted. “I have Lieutenant Carlton and the others searching Frankland’s office for any notes or recordings that might help us understand what we’re seeing, but we don’t have enough information yet. The only thing we know is that it's an airborne virus. It can only be transmitted through the respiratory system.”

Barrymore clenched his teeth, and after a long moment, finally broke eye contact with Sherlock to address Lestrade. “Fine,” he growled, looking toward the gate at the trucks and military ambulance being quickly loaded up. “We’ll try to apprehend him without a tranq, but if _you_ can’t get Doctor Watson to come willingly, I’m authorizing my men to knock him out. For his own safety _and_ ours.” He narrowed his eyes and sneered at Sherlock. “We wouldn’t want him running back through the _minefield_ again, would we?”

Lestrade saw Sherlock’s already weak composure flash red in outrage. He quickly placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm in warning as he opened his mouth to fight back.

“Time is of the essence, Mr. Holmes,” Doctor Stapleton interjected firmly but gently. “I know you know that. The most important thing is that we get Doctor Watson back here quickly so we can treat him.”

Barrymore’s radio came to life, and a muffled voice reported that the trucks were ready to leave, just waiting on him.

“We’re coming with,” Lestrade reiterated before Sherlock could. “If you have a problem with that, I’m sure Mycroft Holmes would love to hear about it.”

Barrymore took a deep breath in irritation and gave a single, angry nod, then jogged off toward one of the trucks loaded with men. Sherlock and Lestrade followed.

 

* * *

 

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon when John’s tracks seemed to evaporate. WIth the loss of light came a loss of heat, and although the moor had warmed up quite a bit since winter, it was still only early spring. Luckily, there was no wind and the forest remained still, the only rustling generated by boots or wildlife.

As Sherlock pulled on his gloves, he did a mental inventory of what John had been wearing and was grateful that John had been completely dressed before he ran from the lab. A vest, button-up shirt, jumper, and his black jacket … hopefully it would be enough to keep him warm. Well, that and the fever, and if that wasn’t a double-edged sword then what was?

More servicemen and women continued to join them, and eventually they had three search parties hunting in the dark, calling for John as they spread out in all directions through the woods. Major Barrymore had left them with Corporal Lyons, and went to coordinate other methods of search.

Despite arguing he’d already been exposed and was either immune or the virus was not contagious, Sherlock was issued a protective face mask with strong filters that made breathing through it feel like inhaling through a straw. The medics who would tend to John were outfitted in full hazmat suits, and Sherlock and Lestrade had been instructed that once John was found, they were to remain back until he’d been properly tended to and transported back to Baskerville.

As darkness descended over the woods, progress slowed. The terrain was rough, and low-lying mist settled in and obscured their footing, reflecting the light of the torch beams. A bloodhound was brought in, and finally hours after he’d disappeared through the trees, there was hope in finding John again as the dog picked up his scent.

Sherlock and Lestrade’s search party shifted course to meet up with the animal handlers, communicating their coordinates via radios and handheld military GPS units. But in his haste to get to the trail the bloodhound had found, Sherlock became careless.

Caught up in his own thoughts, Sherlock had stopped paying as much attention to where he was stepping. Without warning, the ground suddenly fell away beneath his feet and he pitched down a short but steep embankment into a murky pond.

The frigid water was barely three feet deep, but Sherlock was soaked from head to toe. He stood and emerged from the bog, infuriated, weighed down with mud and swamp flora.

“Are you all right?” Lestrade called down. Half a dozen torch beams pointed down on him from the ridge, and Sherlock squinted and resisted the urge to scream. They didn’t have time for delays like this. He shook his arms, trying to rid himself of the mess while taking a mental inventory for any injuries he might have sustained. Aside from his pride, he came up empty.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, dragging himself out. The sludge below the water acted like a vacuum, sucking at his shoes with every step, trying to claim them. His hair hung in muddy clumps. Hands reached down toward Sherlock, and Lestrade and a private gripped his forearms and pulled him back up onto the ledge.

“You’re a bloody mess,” Lestrade commented, wrinkling his nose.

“I am _aware_ ,” Sherlock hissed. “We don’t have time to dwell on that. We need to keep going.”

“You can’t keep going like _this_ ,” Lestrade objected. “It’s bloody cold out here. You’ll get hypothermia and we’ll have to divert resources from John to take care of _you_.”

“I’m fine; I don’t get cold,” Sherlock replied dismissively, turning to continue on their original path.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t work like that.” Lestrade reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the upper arm, pulling him back to the discussion. “You’re wet, it’s chilly, and hypothermia doesn’t understand that the _great_ _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ ‘doesn’t get cold.’ You haven’t even got a single ounce of body fat on you to slow it down!” Lestrade argued. He shook his head in disbelief and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “I know you’re desperate to find John, and I am too. So let’s get back to base, get you cleaned up and into dry clothes, and get back out here quickly.”

Sherlock blinked, trying to form an argument and ignore the fact that shivers were already starting to course through him. Before he could speak, Lestrade continued; “Shivering is just the first sign. Soon you’ll be drowsy and slurring your speech, and your coordination will give way. And did I mention the confusion? If your body is putting all its energy into keeping you warm -- which is a fight it will _not_ win and we’ll have to cart you out of here on a stretcher -- you won’t have anything left to put into finding John.”

“I can take you back, sir,” Corporal Lyons offered. “The others can go on to meet up with the main search party and we won’t lose momentum.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, let out a grunt of frustration, and spun away from Lestrade, stalking back through the forest in the direction they’d come. This time, he forced himself to pay attention to where he put his feet.

 

* * *

 

None of Sherlock’s clothes were salvageable without a trip to the dry-cleaners. While he’d quickly showered in the men’s locker room, running his fingers through his hair to remove large globs of mud and scraping bog sediment from between his toes, Lestrade had retrieved his overnight bag from the car. Sherlock changed back into the clothes from their first day at Baskerville; a mist-grey shirt and black suit, but quickly realized he was without extra shoes or a coat that could withstand the elements.

“What size are those?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, eyeing Greg’s shoes surreptitiously.

“Not your size,” Lestrade replied, rolling his eyes. “Lucky for you, I already spoke to Lieutenant Carlton about getting you some new ones. And a jacket too.”

Sherlock searched for a witty comeback, but found he was struck by Lestrade’s kindness. Normally, John was the one who looked after Sherlock, but if he were being honest with himself, Lestrade had always kept an eye out for him too, and had done for years before John. And Sherlock had just been trying to figure out a way to swindle the man out of his own shoes.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade recoiled in surprise, and Sherlock pretended not to notice. “Don’t mention it,” Greg murmured.

Sherlock cracked a small smile and looked up at Lestrade. “Ah, Grant … you know better than anyone else: I probably never will again.” Lestrade chuckled, and shook his head.

The door opened and Lieutenant Carlton strode in, carrying a pair of black military boots and an olive green anorak with the army logo embroidered on the chest. Sherlock nodded in appreciation as Nick handed them over, but the Lieutenant was too excited to care about the gesture.

“Mister Holmes, Detective Inspector; Doctor Stapleton says she’s found it -- everything on the virus. She wants you to see.”

Sherlock hastily shoved his feet into the boots, tying them without lacing them up completely. The three men darted out of the locker room, jogging toward Doctor Frankland’s old office.

 

* * *

 

They were coming; John could hear Them yelling his name, closing in on him from all sides. So many men, hunting him. How had Moriarty assembled such an army?

John didn’t know how long he’d been running, but it had been a while since the sun had set. It felt like he had been chased non-stop for hours. Still his body propelled him forward, even as his chest burned with each breath, even as his heart felt like it would break his ribs from pounding so hard. It was if he had a live wire inside of him, and he was made of pure electricity.

But his path had run out. He skidded to a stop at the river’s edge. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see the water was moving too fast. White foam capped the crests and swells as they battered the huge granite stones that jutted out of the water. It looked to be eight meters across, and no telling how deep in the middle. If he lost his footing, he would be carried off and have his brains dashed out on a boulder. It wasn’t passable.

“Doctor Watson!”

“John!”

“Captain Watson!”

Voices called out through the forest, as they had since this had begun. He spun and saw Them come through the brush behind him to his right, holding torches and the straining leash of a barking beast. Now more men on the left. They were surrounding him. His mind raced. He needed to use the river to put distance between him and Them, but it was too dangerous to cross.

Calls from the darkness: “Doctor Watson, we’re just trying to help you!”

“Come out, Captain Watson, it’s all right!”

“You’re not in trouble, you need medical attention. Let us get you some help!”

Lies. All of it. Lies.

John ran down the bank, trying not to slip on the slick stones. The dog was barking behind him. John’s heart clenched when he looked back to see it, snarling, ravenous, and frenzied. A monster, just waiting for him to fall so it could tear him to pieces.

Torch beams bounced off the trees around him. Branches and leaves snapped in a cacophony of white noise. The moon moved behind the clouds and the woods were shrouded in even more darkness.

“Doctor Watson, let us help you!”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s all right!”

“It’s not safe out here, John, let’s get back inside where it’s warm and dry!”

Moriarty was losing his touch if his men were trying to lure John back with promises of cozy comfort. In the time John had known the man, he had always been creepy and sadistic. His men should be taunting John, or trying to unnerve him, not coaxing him out gently. But maybe that was just their tactic; get him to let his guard down and trust. Gaslight him until he doubted himself and his mind and what he saw with his own two eyes so he’d fall right into their trap.

John stopped to catch his breath behind an enormous ash tree at the river’s edge. The water had cut through rock here creating a cliff, and John stood looking down at the dark water from three metres up.

A fallen log lay on the edge of the cliff, and John nudged it with his foot. The inside was hollow, but the log was large, at least four feet in length. When it didn’t move, he braced himself against the tree and pushed with both feet. Finally, it started to shift.

Turning to survey the ash tree, John had an idea.

The noises were getting closer again. They would be upon him in half a minute; he didn’t have much time.

John braced his back against the tree and pushed the log until it teetered over the edge of the cliff. Peering around the large tree trunk, he waited until the first torch light came into sight.

Cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the noise, he let out a loud, bitten-off yelp, then shoved the log off the cliff. It splashed loudly into the river and quickly bounced off of the huge granite rocks in the water, disappearing downstream as pieces of it splintered off along the way.

Yelling erupted behind him, frantic and laden with curses.

Turning quickly to the tree, John jumped, grabbing at the bark. He found a handhold and pulled. His feet scrambled for purchase against the bark, and he climbed as high as he could without pausing to think. He stopped about five metres up when the limbs thinned out and he didn’t trust them to hold his weight. He tried to quiet his breathing and prayed the noise was drowned out by the rushing water.

They approached and John held still, pushing himself against the tree’s trunk, holding on tightly to the branches around him, and praying they wouldn’t look up. He could see the tops of their heads from where he was perched, and the surging river below. The view was dizzying. For a moment John’s vision clouded over, and the whining in his ears spiked, drowning out all other noise. John blinked and shook his head, struggling to stay upright and conscious. His senses cleared just in time, as men appeared at the base of the tree.

“You’re sure it was him?”

“Yes, I’m telling you, it was him, he jumped.”

“Yeah, Colonel, I saw him too, he definitely went in.”

Colonel? Was Moriarty employing military now? John thought he’d heard Sherlock refer to one of Moriarty’s men as Colonel once … _Colonel_ _Moran_?

“Milton!” the Colonel barked back into the woods.

“Yes, sir!” the man with the dog ran up. John’s stomach clenched at the sight.

“See if she can get a scent on Watson. Maybe he ran back into the woods.” The Colonel sounded exhausted and skeptical at his own suggestion.

The dog sniffed for a few moments, and alerted at the cliff’s edge and the tree trunk. Torch beams quickly swept through the tree, but John stayed still and miraculously avoided notice. The men seemed too caught up in their certainty that it had been him in the water, exactly how he hoped they would.

There was a pause, then the Colonel kicked the tree in anger. “Shit! There’s going to be another inquiry board for this. Mycroft Holmes will have all our heads.”

Mycroft? Sherlock’s brother was working with Sherlock’s arch-enemy? Cold rage settled over John like a thick blanket. How dare Mycroft sell out his own brother to Moriarty!

“Do you think he’s dead, sir?”

“It would be a bloody miracle if he fell into that and survived, but I guess we can hope. Regardless, we need to reclaim the body. Radio Major Barrymore and the rest of the team and let them know the search has changed to a retrieval.”

John felt a wave of relief sweep over him. If They thought he was dead, They’d stop looking for him, and he could get to safety, and hopefully find Sherlock before Moriarty got to him, too.

Panic gripped John. It was possible Moriarty might already have Sherlock, and John was out here running in a dark forest, unable to be there to protect him. Sherlock would be alone and vulnerable, most likely outnumbered.

John was never able to add much to his relationship with Sherlock intellectually. It wasn’t that he lacked brain power, but there were so few who could keep up with someone as brilliant as Sherlock, and he definitely wasn’t one of them. In that sense, John understood Sherlock’s morbid fascination with Jim Moriarty. Sherlock probably never dreamed he’d find an intellectual equal, and it seemed Moriarty felt the same. The two were obsessed with each other, and although it made John ill to see Sherlock play with fire, he understood that Moriarty gave Sherlock something that John himself never could. Not only the temptation that came with danger and risk (that John was intimately familiar with), but a true mental sparring partner after a life of intellectual isolation.

But John could at least try to protect him from Moriarty. He’d be the brawn to protect Sherlock’s brains. He’d keep him safe for as long as he could. He could ensure Sherlock won in their twisted battle, when Moriarty employed dirty tactics to gain the upper hand.

Suddenly, a rivulet of wetness ran down John’s lip, slipping into his mouth, metallic. His nose was bleeding again. John tried to loosen his grip on the tree to staunch the bleeding with his hand, but his head was pounding and his vision was still swimmy. He grabbed the branch again and instead tried to angle his head so it would run down his chin and neck so his shirt would absorb the flow.

Below him, the dog perked up but her handler was already leading her away. She barked twice and tried to dig her heels in to go back to the tree, but he replied, admonishing her and pulling her leash to follow him.

The men and beast moved off downstream. John stayed still as countless other men in Moriarty’s army filtered past, searching the water with their torches. Some paused at the cliff edge to survey the drop for themselves, but none even thought to look up.

Finally, the forest was silent, save for its natural nocturnal symphony. John climbed down from the tree and ran back the direction he’d come, slipping out of the moonlight and back into the darkness of the forest.


	5. Chapter 5

Every surface in Doctor Stapleton’s lab was covered in papers. A man in a lab coat was busy searching through a cardboard file box, four more stacked in a tower at his side waiting their turn. Two women sat at computers, one looking through e-mail, the other poring over files on the hard drive. Doctor Stapleton stood in front of a huge whiteboard covered in notes, an open dry erase marker in her hand as she paused to read over what she’d written.

“Doctor Stapleton, I’ve got Mister Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Lieutenant Carlton announced as they entered. She turned to look at them, her expression exhausted but focused. Sherlock took in the disarray of her hair and wrinkles on the shirt beneath her lab coat and remembered she’d been called out of bed the night Frankland died. She probably hadn’t gone back since.

“Thank you, Nick. Can you relay what we’ve found to the search party and inquiry team?” she asked, and he nodded and took leave. Stapleton watched him go, then looked back to Sherlock and Lestrade. “We’ve got it,” she said, tired but victorious.

They followed her to a table spread with handwritten notes and piles of paper. “We tore apart Doctor Frankland’s office and the virology labs, but it actually didn’t take long. Because Bob was the head of the department, he must have been pretty confident that no one would come snooping in his labs.” She paused and offered a small apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I get off of my feet for a few moments,” she said, sitting down on a lab stool, gesturing for them to take the adjacent chairs. Lestrade sat; Sherlock was too keyed up to do the same, and stood instead.

“The virus with which Doctor Watson is infected was _in_ the gas he inhaled in the lab. Doctor Frankland had been working on a modified compound, apparently intended for weaponization.”

“Jesus,” Lestrade breathed, shoulders slumping in shock.

Stapleton paused, her silence an agreement.

Sherlock pushed on. “But the rest of us are fine. Why didn’t we catch it?”

“It was only in the gas in the animal-testing lab. What Frankland had been piping out to Dewer’s Hollow was just a hallucinogen, which is what Henry Knight and you were exposed to. But Doctor Watson came into contact with a leaky pipe carrying the virus in the airlocked lab. That lab was primarily used by Doctor Frankland and those working in virology; hazmat suits and respirators are mandatory, so no one on the research team caught it. Frankland must have fixed the leak shortly after Doctor Watson had been in there.”

Sherlock’s mind went blank at the weight of Stapleton’s words. The only reason John had gone into that lab was because Sherlock had sent him down there in the first place. In the name of experimentation, he’d locked John in. At the time it had seemed harmless, and Sherlock thought he’d been in control of the whole situation.

 _“Perfectly scientific, laboratory conditions,”_ he’d told John at the Inn, trying to reassure him there had never been any real danger. Now they were literally fighting to save his life, because it _had_ been real danger he’d exposed John to. John was terrified, alone, and running through a treacherous forest because Sherlock hadn’t thought twice before using him as a guinea pig. He suddenly felt light-headed and slumped into the empty chair.

“Why weren’t we informed of the viral gas sooner?” Sherlock questioned, voice laced with venom meant for himself.

Stapleton took it in stride. “No one else knew. It wasn’t an official assignment; it was his secret project. We’ve found emails showing correspondence between Doctor Frankland and potential … clients. He was peddling the virus around, trying to see how high he could push the price. The current high bidder was the leader of a terrorist cell in Yemen, who wanted to use it to incapacitate opposition forces elsewhere in the middle east. Luckily, the virus was riddled with issues and he still had a lot of work ahead of him when he died.”

“What kind of issues?" Sherlock demanded. "What does it do? How does it progress? How do we cure it?” 

The doctor blinked and took a deep breath. “All right, let’s start at the top. As far as issues go; it lives for less than a minute when released into the open air, and it isn’t contagious between an infected person and a healthy one. All this makes it ideal as a weapon – friendly troops won’t be affected when moving through the area later or when coming into contact with the infected. The goal was to swiftly disorient enemy troops; that was the initial paranoia Doctor Watson experienced in the animal lab, similar to the sensations you were faced with at Dewer’s Hollow. With the enemy severely confused, the hope was that they’d turn on each other and self-destruct. But the incredible increase in strength and speed due to higher-than-usual stress levels of surging adrenaline made the behaviour of those affected  _ too _ unpredictable.”

Sherlock quickly connected the dots and finished the thought. “If the opposition didn’t turn on each other and remembered who they were _supposed_ to be fighting, they would be super-soldiers.”

“Exactly,” Stapleton nodded. “And then, whoever survived was supposed to return home and infect their communities, but the virus refused to spread. We don’t know if Frankland intended it to be transmissible from one person to another – both possibilities have benefits and downsides. Good for us, at least. It means that none of us can catch it from Doctor Watson, and he won’t have to be quarantined, which will be much less traumatic in his current mental state. We can simply destroy the remaining gas and no one else will be in danger of catching it. No need to alarm the health authorities or the general public.”

She sighed, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and continued. “Now, as far as how it progresses … Doctor Frankland had been conducting tests on some of the monkeys in the lab, and …” She paused, swallowing, and trying to act as if she hadn’t, “it seems one human test subject, whom we’re still trying to identify.” The hair rose on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and Lestrade shot him an alarmed look, but Stapleton continued. Frankland had experimented on a person? It wasn’t just unethical, it was absolutely monstrous.

“Doctor Frankland broke the progression up into six stages.” Stapleton dug out a notebook full of handwritten notes and diagrams. She flipped through it until she found the page she was looking for.

“Phase zero is the point of infection. The victim experiences extreme paranoia, as well as visual and auditory hallucinations. It’s an almost immediate onset, but then fades quickly; usually within 10 minutes or so.

“Phase one doesn’t set in until twelve hours later. That’s when the first signs of illness begin to show, generally mild flu-like symptoms. Doctor Watson reported he’d had a sore throat, headache, and body aches the morning after he was exposed, and he’d been running a fever.”

Sherlock nodded absently, remembering their conversation on the way to Baskerville that morning. _“Oh. I’m sure it’s nothing, probably just allergies from all the … you know … traipsing about the forest last night,”_ John had said, dismissively. Then in typical John fashion, he’d checked that Sherlock was feeling all right instead of dwelling on his own malaise.

Stapleton continued. “Phase two, 24 hours after exposure, is the stage Doctor Watson was in when he woke up disoriented in the middle of our examination and … made his escape. The flu-like symptoms should escalate soon; some subjects were prone to vomiting. Doctor Watson experienced a nosebleed, which was also seen in the monkeys and human subject multiple times throughout their testing. Then the hallucinations resumed, and … well, you witnessed it first hand. The perceived threat led to heightened adrenaline levels which translated to increased speed and strength.

“The monkeys entered phase three around 48 hours later, but the human subject seemed to get there faster.” She paused to page through the notebook again, and after a moment reported, “Yes, the human subject reached phase three at 39 hours post-infection.”

“Ok, wait,” Lestrade said, holding out a hand to stop the conversation. “What stage is John in now? When was his phase zero?”

“3:30 yesterday afternoon,” Sherlock replied quietly, remembering how he’d had his feet up, watching John run to and fro on the monitors, thoroughly entertained as John was infected right before his eyes.

“It’s gone half 9 now, so we’re coming up on …” Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the ceiling as he did the math in his head.

“30 hours. Stage two,” Sherlock filled in robotically, staring into the middle distance, eyebrows knit together with worry. “We have nine hours until the next stage.” He looked to Doctor Stapleton and asked a question he didn’t really want the answer to: “What happens in stage three?”

She bit her lip and flipped back through the notebook. “Fever increases from mild to moderate, usually around 39º. Loss of coordination, dizziness, fatigue, apparent confusion. Two of the twenty monkeys tested lost consciousness at this point and did not regain it.”

The unspoken _“ever”_ hung in the air. Panic clawed at Sherlock’s throat, and his heart labored through every deafening beat.

“What about the others?” he managed to ask despite the fact that his throat felt like it was in a vice.

Stapleton sighed and pursed her lips, expression grim. “They progressed to phase four: fever moves into dangerous territory;  between 40 and 41º. The brain swells and there’s meningeal inflammation; meningoencephalitis, if you will. Seizures were experienced in 75% of the monkeys and the human subject. Cardiac arrhythmias and respiratory distress were found in every test subject.” Sherlock’s heart sank. He didn’t want to hear more, but Stapleton ploughed on.

“By stage five the patient is comatose, the brain swells, and the body shuts down. Death resulted from multi-organ failure not dissimilar to filoviral hemorrhagic fevers. It seems that the clotting system becomes susceptible to disseminated intravascular coagulation and there was also kidney failure in several suspects. The virus also affected their cardiac muscle function, probably precipitating to the arrhythmia which preceded death.”

There was silence in the room. Even the man searching through files and the women on the computers had stopped at some point to listen. Lestrade absentmindedly rubbed his forehead above his stormy eyes as he blinked, trying to wrap his head around it all.

Sherlock realized he was trembling and clenched his hands into fists trying to stop. His heart was crashing in his chest. From far away, he heard his own voice, barely a whisper. “And the mortality rate?”

Stapleton bowed her head. “100%.”

The room was closing in. Sherlock heard Lestrade call after him as he bolted from the lab. Thankfully, the men’s loo was empty when he burst in. He paced the small room, not sure if he wanted to scream or cry or vomit. Hot, furious tears blurred his vision.

He leaned over the white porcelain sink, gripping the sides and closing his eyes, trying to make sense of the mess of facts and feelings laying waste to his mind. He heard the door to the loo open.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said gently from behind him. Sherlock ducked his head, willing away the tears, and turned on the taps, splashing water over his face.

“I know what you’re thinking, and this is not your fault,” Lestrade’s eyes met his in the mirror above the sink. He dropped his gaze and grabbed for a paper towel, patting his face dry, closing his eyes and resisting the urge to scream into the wet brown paper.

Sherlock’s voice dripped with disgust as he replied. “I sent John down to that lab and then I locked him in it. He never would have been in the airlock if I hadn’t told him to investigate. I do believe that’s the very _definition_ of me being _at fault_.”

“You told me you thought the sugar was the source; you didn’t know he’d come into contact with a biological weapon.”

Sherlock was furious. “Are you seriously trying to allay my guilt by telling me because I thought I was drugging him in a _different_ way, and only _accidentally_ pushed him into the path of an oncoming train, I’m not to blame for his imminent dea--” He choked on the last word. Deep down, he knew: if he had thought the hallucinogen was in the gas, he still would not have hesitated to use John to test the theory.

Now John was going to die. Sherlock had practically signed his death certificate with his own carelessness.

The room spun. He couldn’t breathe.

Lestrade’s hands gripped his arms, steadying him.

“Whoa, okay, hang on. Take a breath.” Sherlock managed a shaky inhale, then another. Some far-off part of him was ashamed at the realization that there were still tears in his eyes, and all of this emotion was on display in front of Lestrade. Still, Sherlock couldn’t stop the fear that gripped him, and the grief that was settling in at the realization: John’s time really was running out.

When a tear slipped down the side of Sherlock’s jaw, he quickly brushed it away in embarrassment, but when he looked up, he found only kindness and concern in Lestrade’s eyes which were now chasing his, trying to lock on. Sherlock forced himself to hold the eye contact, and the DI relaxed a little, letting go and stepping back.

“What you didn’t hear after you left was that Frankland was close to finding a way to treat it, as a failsafe in case his client’s forces were exposed or if the virus mutated and they started catching it themselves. Doctor Stapleton said there was something that had looked promising, I think she called it some sort of an antiviral?  And some of the subjects had almost survived after they got that! They have Frankland’s notes on what he thinks went wrong. But I wanted to make sure you were all right, so I didn’t get the details. Let’s go back and figure it out. This isn’t over yet; we’re not giving up, yeah? John is a fighter. He’s the toughest man I know. And we have a whole team working to figure this out and help him.” He caught Sherlock’s eyes, which had drifted to the wall, and gave him a small, hopeful smile. “Take a minute, I’ll see you back in there.”

Sherlock nodded weakly, tucking his chin to his chest and sniffing, trying to regain his composure. A moment later he heard the loo door close, and swallowed the sobs so desperate to break forth. Checking his reflection in the mirror, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and straightened his jacket. If there was a way to save John, he’d find it, and they couldn’t afford to waste a moment until he had.

 

* * *

 

Major Barrymore was in the lab when Sherlock returned. He walked back in, head held high, determined and ready to get to work. Barrymore’s expression was grim, and Sherlock was immediately on high alert. “Do you have news?” he asked, as he moved to stand next to Lestrade and Stapleton.

The Major looked at the floor for a moment before taking a deep breath and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I have reports back from multiple sources that Captain Watson fell into the water at a particularly treacherous branch of the river. There's been no sign of him since then," his tone was hard but regretful. "The current is strong. It would have been easy to be pulled under, and a fall from the height he was at … alone it would have—"

Sherlock would have none of it. A minute ago, there had been a chance, a way to save John: the antiviral. John wasn’t allowed to die in some random accident over which Sherlock had no control when they’d just been given hope that he could be treated. And it just didn’t _feel_ right. Sherlock would never allow the notion that someone could sense if a loved one were dead or alive; there was no scientific way to prove hunches and inklings, and no tangible evidence of such a metaphysical link between human beings. But still, deep in Sherlock’s lizard-brain he just knew: John wasn’t dead yet.

It’s not as if anything between them had ever been ‘typical.’ They were so in sync with each other it _had_ to be outside of the realm of average. They had entire conversations in the space of a heartbeat without even speaking. John once tossed Sherlock a pen which Sherlock swiftly caught without any eye contact between them or the pen. It was as if they’d become two halves of a single being, and if half of Sherlock was dead, he’d know.

Rapidfire denial poured out of Sherlock’s mouth: “John is an excellent swimmer. It was dark; it's plausible he could have gotten to the other side without being seen. He was trying to evade what he perceived to be a deadly threat; he wouldn't have been obvious. He has military training in avoiding capture, and he’s physically fit, not to mention he’s high on adrenaline. He could have held his breath or allowed the current to take him farther down —"

Barrymore cut him off firmly, but his voice lacked any animosity. “If he survived the _fall_ , it is unlikely he would have survived the force of the raging water and the boulders in it. The dog lost track of his scent and was unable to pick it up again on either shore —”

“No doubt it was that _confounded_ _dog_ that sent him into the water in the first place!" Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table.

"Sherlock ..." Lestrade murmured, trying to calm him. Sherlock's upper lip curled and he looked away angrily. All of his despair had been replaced by blinding rage.

“Nevertheless,” Barrymore continued after a few tense moments of silence, “we searched the entire stretch of both banks ending at the reservoir. Almost three kilometers."

Sherlock shook his head in disgust, looking up at the major. He swallowed thickly. "You're calling off the search.” His voice was so low and angry it was almost a growl. Lestrade’s head snapped over to look at Barrymore with Sherlock’s dark deduction. It was obvious the thought hadn’t occurred to him until then.

"We're … refocusing our manpower."

Lestrade was incredulous. "What does that mean, exactly? Just come out with it!”

Barrymore paused, then sighed. "We're calling in divers to drag the water."

Sherlock felt the pit of his stomach drop as anger rose within him. He heard Lestrade let out a breath in shock, and then he asked a question Sherlock already knew the answer to.

"So this has gone from a rescue to a recovery then?"

Barrymore's silence and set jaw was answer enough. Sherlock’s mind spun with too many reasons that this was wrong, but he found he couldn’t articulate any of them.

Lestrade was similarly outraged. “That's absurd! It’s far too premature; we have no evidence to prove he isn't still out there! How well could you even see? I was out there last night _and_ this evening. With all the fog and shadows, it’s easy for your eyes to play tricks on you. Maybe he didn’t go in the water at all!”

“We have multiple eyewitnesses who saw Captain Watson enter the river. The only discrepancy is whether he fell or … jumped.”

Lestrade shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep some boots on the ground. With whatever it is you people are doing here, you’ve _got_ to have other ways to search.”

“Detective Inspector, I assure you, we’re doing everything within our means —”

“Then we’ll have to change those means, won’t we?” Sherlock muttered, pulling out his mobile, and beginning to text.

“We don’t have a homing beacon on him,” Barrymore muttered.

Suddenly Sherlock gasped, remembering that he in fact, _did_.

John hadn’t noticed months ago when Sherlock had toggled the “share my location” option in the settings of their text message thread. Sherlock was always borrowing John’s mobile, tapping around, and handing it back, so the event didn’t stand out. Sherlock had tried to rationalize it to himself as _definitely not creepy_ and _only to be used in an emergency anyways_ and _really, it’s a practical precaution to have._ He had already decided beforehand that having a conversation and getting John’s input on the matter wasn’t necessary. _Besides,_ he’d further justified to himself, _John’s record for getting kidnapped is far worse than mine_.

In actuality, he’d turned the setting on, checked it once to see how it worked while John walked to Tesco, and largely forgot about it until Barrymore’s remark reminded Sherlock he had _indeed_ set up a homing beacon for John Watson.

Sherlock rushed to a computer and brought up the online tracking interface. After a moment of loading, the site showed phone was offline, and hope fell to helplessness again.

Really, he couldn’t have assumed it would work. John had fallen from the truck onto his backside where he normally kept his mobile, and it was possible it had broken. Or the battery could be dead by now. Or John could have gotten his phone wet, if he’d been in the water like they concluded he had. Or he’d broken it on purpose, afraid of such tracking. Or he simply had no signal in the middle of the 950 square kilometer national forest.

His own mobile buzzed to life in his pocket.

He answered before it could ring twice. “I need a favor, brother mine."

 

* * *

 

The helicopters swung low over the trees, searching the clearings, shining huge and blinding beams of light around the massive jagged tors. On board each, an infrared screen cut through the darkness searching for warmth in the shape of a man.

Within an hour of their phone call, Mycroft mobilized an aerial task force and approved additional search parties on the ground, then announced he was on his way to Baskerville to oversee it all. Under any other circumstance, Sherlock would have been furious, and scoffed at his big brother’s involvement, but this time he felt nothing but relief. As much as Sherlock held it against him, Mycroft had gotten him out of countless sticky situations, and Sherlock had never needed his power and influence as he did now.

The divers scouring the river and reservoir continued working, but the search for a living John Watson had resumed.

 

* * *

 

The clearing would not have been John’s first choice, but he’d run out of forest. Tall grasses swayed at his hips in the soft breeze. Stars coated the sky above like glitter on black velvet. Cricket calls broke the cool damp stillness.

He knew they weren’t looking for him anymore which made him a little calmer, but being exposed in the middle of a field still felt dangerous, so he crouched low as he ran, making his way across the large expanse. He took shelter behind rock tors when he could, some barely the size of another person, most about the size of a London cab. One particularly large outcropping was easily three metres tall and twice as wide. It was surrounded by smaller rock piles, and John felt shielded enough to crawl in and rest for a few minutes.

He massaged his temples, trying to clear his reeling mind.

Everything felt hazy, and his memory only came back to him in flashes. He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing before he’d woken in the locker room. Had he been at Baker Street? Or maybe at work? How far from London was he now? Were they even still in England? He honestly had no clue, and that was terrifying.

Where was Sherlock? Had they been together when John had been kidnapped? Did Moriarty have him too? Was he coming to save John, or did John need to do the saving?

His head ached, his throat burned, and nausea overwhelmed him. He leaned over to vomit but only managed dry heaves. His vision doubled and swam.

Sherlock’s voice came back to him, tied up with his memory of his locker room escape. He couldn’t make out the words, but knew they had been desperate and worried. Had Sherlock been in the locker room too? Why hadn’t John seen him? Had he left him there to deal with the aftermath of his own getaway? Bits and pieces came back to him like sticky gossamer threads, there and gone, delicate but powerful, a web he was completely tangled up in.

The idea that he’d left Sherlock to fend for himself overwhelmed John with horror and guilt, but the broken picture he was piecing together seemed to show that’s exactly what he had done. He’d abandoned the most important person in his life, and left him in the clutches of a madman whose sole goal in life was to cause Sherlock pain and misery.

John had to go back.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had been staring into space, biting his thumbnail -- a bad habit he’d last indulged in primary school. His eyes wandered the room slowly, not really seeing anything, while his mind scrolled through chemical equations and basic virology and lists of known medical side effects. He’d left the rest of the team in the makeshift command center, needing quiet to think, and had been sitting in a dark laboratory alone for a few hours now. Mycroft had arrived and taken control of the situation. The antiviral Doctor Stapleton thought to have the highest chance of success was quickly located and on its way. 

It was almost 3:00 in the morning. John would be nearing 36 hours post-infection. If his illness followed the timing of the human test subject, it was barely three hours until he would be at phase 3.

When the satellite map of Dartmoor refreshed, suddenly displaying a small pulsing blue dot in an outcropping of trees, Sherlock almost didn’t notice. The map had been auto-reloading for hours now, occasionally logging itself out due to some sort of algorithmic perception of inactivity. So when the screen flashed black and reloaded the birds-eye view of Devon with blue dot now visible, it almost went unseen.

Sherlock’s gaze swung past the screen as he absently stared into the middle distance, then widened and snapped back as he finally _saw_.

John’s mobile. He’d either turned it on, or he had come into an area where he had signal.

He was _alive_.

Sherlock practically flew out of the lab to find Major Barrymore, the search party, and John.


	6. Chapter 6

Thick mist clung to the ground at Sherlock’s feet as he stepped through the tree line. The sun would be up in an hour, warming the moor and banishing the fog until dusk. He glanced down at his mobile, the blue dot beckoning him forward. He stepped slowly and cautiously through the muddy foliage on the forest floor, gently sweeping his torchlight through the brush. Much of Dartmoor was swampland, and the ground was waterlogged even a few days after rain. Sherlock was grateful for the heavy black military boots Lieutenant Carlton had given him back at the base.

They were only three kilometers from Baskerville, two kilometers closer than the location where John had supposedly fallen into the river. It was almost as if he was heading back to the base, but Sherlock realized it could just as easily be chance that had turned him around in the dark forest. Still, John had covered a decent amount of ground, especially considering he was ill.

The radio on his hip crackled, and Sherlock’s hand moved to it quickly. Without looking, he spun the dial on top to turn down the volume, hesitated a moment, and clicked it off completely. The last thing he wanted was for it to go off at an inopportune moment and scare John away. Once he knew the situation was under control, he’d turn it back on and call in help. Major Barrymore, Lestrade, and a team of medics and soldiers were in the clearing nearby, waiting for Sherlock’s signal.

He scanned the woods ahead of him, trying to line up the dot and his gaze, squinting into the darkness. It was hard to gauge exactly how far he’d have to walk, but he guessed it couldn’t be more than 50 meters.

The forest was full of life even in the darkness. The rustle of the leaves in the light wind, sounds of croaking frogs far off, and the underlying buzz of insects created a sort of white noise that camouflaged things Sherlock was listening for. Laboured breathing, for example.

Quietly, carefully, he continued forward, stopping every few paces to listen and peer into the underbrush around him. Random outcroppings of granite broke the landscape, and when the terrain was uneven, it was often severely so. As Sherlock knew firsthand, a missed step could send a person tumbling into a pit of murky water, or into an even steeper gully, lined with masses of unforgiving rocks. Traversing this terrain was hard enough during daylight, but by the light of the moon it was downright treacherous.

Turning back, Sherlock couldn’t see the field through the trees any longer. The lights of the waiting search party were obscured by distance and natural obstacles. He felt swallowed by the darkness.

He would be absolutely lost without his mobile’s GPS, especially in the middle of the night, and he unconsciously gripped it a little tighter.

Finally, his torch beam landed on a patch of dark blue denim among the greens and browns, miraculously unobscured by the fog. John’s knee peeked out from behind the trunk of a large oak. Sherlock stopped, took a deep breath, and crept forward until he came around to face John.

Keeping his light pointed at the ground, he had just enough illumination to see. John slept leaning back against the tree. His legs were pulled up toward his chest, but his knees had fallen to one side, which was how Sherlock had caught sight of him. His arms were crossed over his chest, but Sherlock could see John’s jacket and jumper were stained deep crimson from his neckline down toward his stomach.

_If he had gone in the water, it would have gotten diluted; it would look hazy. He never went in the river._

Examining John’s legs and shoes proved the theory. If he’d been in the river, flecks of sediment would remain on his clothes. There would be silt caked in the detailed threading of his shoes. As it was, none of those signs were present. He couldn’t see the source of the blood, though. Was John wounded, or was it from another nosebleed?

John was clenching his teeth even as he slept, face twisted in worry, muscles tensed against the cold.

Sherlock tucked his mobile into his pocket and crouched down in front of John. His heart beat loudly in his chest.

“John,” he whispered, trying to make his expression into what he hoped would be recognizable as calm, kind, and non-threatening. John didn’t stir. “John,” Sherlock tried again, slightly louder, and again no reaction. He hesitantly reached out to take John’s pulse, and there was no response to the touch. John’s heart was racing, and his skin was warm and sweaty, but he did not wake. Worry clutched at Sherlock’s insides. John needed medical care urgently.

Sherlock pulled his radio out and switched it back on. “I’ve got him,” he reported. “He’s unconscious; I need medics.”

“Right, we’re on the move,” came the answer, followed by an explosion of radio static.

John’s eyes flew open at the burst of noise. He kicked out, trying to get away, but only managed to push himself back into the tree. There was nowhere to go; the trunk was too wide. He was instantly panicked, desperate, and trapped.

“St-stay away from me!” He yelled, getting to his feet. Eyes darting, searching frantically for an escape route, John held his hands out to block Sherlock from moving toward him. He stumbled back over a thick root, but caught his footing again, and took another step backward.

“John—”

“NO! GET BACK!” John’s voice was hoarse and full of fear and anger.

“It’s _me_ , John, it’s _Sherlock_. It’s ok—”

John’s head snapped toward the sound of branches and leaves rustling as the search party entered the woods. At least a dozen torch beams danced through the darkness.

He gasped. Desperate for a way out, he dropped his shoulder and slammed into Sherlock like a rugby player, then took off into the woods.

Sherlock felt the air leave his lungs as he hit the forest floor. His radio skittered away into the underbrush. In shock, he tried to suck in a breath but found himself unable to do so. He fought against his body’s urge to struggle harder, knowing that getting worked up wouldn’t be productive. John was getting away, but Sherlock needed to stay calm and regain his ability to breathe before he’d be able to go after John.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s face appeared above him a few moments later. “You all right, mate? What happened?”

Sherlock sat up slowly. “Just knocked the wind out of me, I’ll be fine,” he said, gasping a bit. Lestrade took his hand and pulled him up. Sherlock finally took a deep breath and felt his head clear. “He ran off before I could stop him.”

“He didn’t recognize you?”

“I surprised him,” Sherlock sidestepped. “He was caught off guard; he wasn’t expecting to see me, so he … didn’t.”

He could hear the search party yelling in the direction John had fled.

“I lost my radio,” he said, looking around quickly, but not seeing it. “He ran west, toward the riverbend,” he thought aloud as his mind combed through the maps he’d been studying just hours before. “Radio Barrymore. I know the way. I can go around the other direction, catch him from the opposite side.”

Before Lestrade could reply, Sherlock took off, disappearing into the darkness. Lestrade considered heading after him, but didn’t think he could catch up.. He’d barely made it to Dewer’s Hollow last night on the main route, and didn’t want to get turned around approaching from an angle he was unfamiliar with. He pulled out his radio to call the rest of the team, then took off toward the yelling and torchlights.

 

* * *

 

They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril.

They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear.

Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”  

Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods.

Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

John leapt over rocks and roots with superhuman speed, and as hard as he tried, Sherlock couldn’t gain any ground on him even though he had height to his advantage. They plunged into a dark copse of trees and Sherlock felt the temperature drop. He was running almost blindly now, the moon veiled by the thick canopy above. How John could see where he was going was a mystery. Even as Sherlock’s eyes adjusted, he could barely keep John’s dark form in his sights. One wrong step could be dangerous, even fatal.

Sherlock’s legs and lungs were burning, and he had no idea in which direction they were heading. John wasn’t slowing down. Was something in the virus increasing adrenaline output, or was the pure terror creating such a severe fight or flight response? John’s endurance and speed were unwavering, and Sherlock didn’t know if he’d be able to keep up much longer at this rate.

Ahead of him, John abruptly skidded to a stop and quickly took a few steps back. He leaned over, hands on his knees, defeated and panting. Beside him, the forest floor dropped away to a deep ravine, almost three stories high. He was cornered.

John’s breathing was labored and awkward, heaving breaths that were sucked in weakly but quickly. He was shaking. Suppressed hysterical whimpers accompanied his every exhale.

From the far distance, voices carried through the trees. Although Sherlock needed medical backup from Baskerville, right now they were only making the situation worse. As scared as John was, being pursued was escalating matters as Sherlock had known it would.

Sherlock approached John slowly. John turned, and even though he didn’t look up, Sherlock knew he was aware of his presence. As he got closer, he could see John trembling, his muscles rigid like he was ready to spring. Sherlock heard him swallow and hold his breath, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

“John, it’s _me_.” Sherlock’s voice was laden with desperation. “It’s Sherlock Holmes. Your _friend_.”

John’s eyes rose to Sherlock’s, searching for evidence that what he was saying was true. He looked Sherlock up and down, taking in the black combat boots and green military anorak.

“You’re one of Them,” he moaned, exhausted and defeated. He took a clumsy step back, then another, toward the edge of the cliff.

His back foot suddenly gave out as the rocks and dirt crumbled and a piece of the edge fell away. John pinwheeled his arms forward and recovered his balance quickly, but not before Sherlock rushed forward to grab him.

“NO!” John yelled, both feet now on solid ground, but still centimeters from the edge. “STAY _BACK_!”

Sherlock put his hands up in a sign of surrender, and stepped backward. The urge to lunge forward and pull John away from the brink was nearly overwhelming. He struggled to keep his voice and face calm. His heart hammered in his ears. “John, I promise … It’s just a hallucination, it’s all in your head. You’re ill and your mind is playing tricks—”

“Get away from me!” He held both shaking hands out in front of himself, as if to block Sherlock. “You can’t fool me! I know you work for Moriarty. I know what you’re trying to do!” His voice trembled on the verge of hysterical tears.

Sherlock spoke quietly and evenly. “John, I promise you, it’s me, Sherlock. I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t let anything bad happen to you, I’m just trying to help--”

John looked around frantically, his fevered eyes flicking between his surroundings and Sherlock, looking for a way out. Glancing back over his shoulder, he judged the ravine. There would be no surviving a fall there.

Sherlock could see John’s thoughts as if they were spread out in front of him. Sherlock was too far from John for John to attempt to throw him over the edge.

So John would jump, instead.

A chill coursed through Sherlock at the realization: _He’s so scared he’d rather kill himself than be caught._   

“Come away from the edge, John.” Sherlock began to take large, slow, obvious steps backward. “Come away, I won’t hurt you. Look, I’m moving back too.”

John stood, twitching like a live wire, eyes locked on Sherlock.

More noises. John startled and let out a panicked yelp. His movement sent a few more rocks tumbling over the side of the cliff. His face crumpled and he clutched his head between his hands, clenching his teeth and letting out a tormented sob.

Sherlock pretended he didn’t hear the noise, holding his body still and keeping his expression calm even when he was anything but. He imagined this must be what bomb-disposal experts felt when defusing explosives.

“When I first met you, I asked Afghanistan or Iraq,” Sherlock began. His heart crashed in his ears as fear flooded through him. But John looked up in surprise at the statement, so Sherlock continued. “You lent me your mobile and I told you everything about your life, but I thought Harry was your _brother_. Then _my_ brother tried to pay you to spy on me and you refused. When you told me, I said it was a shame because we could have split the money.”

John’s eyes had taken on a faraway look, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was wishful thinking, but he swore he saw John’s mouth quirk up for a moment as if he were about to smile.

“Our landlady is Mrs Hudson. She always tells us she’s not our housekeeper, even though she brings us tea and tidies our flat. Your favorite mug is the white one with the RAMC insignia on it. You forbade me from using food containers to store experiments after you accidentally grabbed a yoghurt cup of coagulated bile for lunch once. You saved my life on the second day I knew you, and afterwards we went for Chinese food.”

John’s eyes rose to meet his then, and Sherlock could see the exact moment the veil lifted, and John finally _saw_ who was really standing in front of him. Not an enemy, but his best friend.

John’s face suddenly went from anguish and fear to confused relief.

“Sh … Sherlock?” The name came out in a sob.

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “It’s me, it’s okay. Please, John. Come away from the edge.”

“Oh my God,” John whispered, taking in his surroundings as if he’d just awoken. He took two steps forward and stumbled, falling to his knees. Sherlock squatted and held out a hand, and when John’s fingers closed around his, he pulled him close, away from the precipice.

John looked up, pain written all over his face. Shame. Confusion. “I’m so sorry, I … Sherlock … I didn’t mean to leave you there, with Them … I was so confused, I didn’t know.” John wrapped his arms around himself, and he breathed heavily. “They’ve been chasing me … Moriarty … strapped another bomb to me … and I got away but I didn’t mean to leave you. I’ve been running, and … I thought … I thought I wouldn’t get there in time and Moriarty would … he would … “ John shook his head to ward off the horrible thought that would finish the sentence. “So I was … I was trying to find my way back … to go back … to save you … and then They found me again and I … I’m so sorry, Sherlock!” Sherlock frowned and hushed John, wrapping an arm around his back as John gently rocked himself, head buried in his hands.

“It’s all right, John. It’s okay.” He ducked his head to try and catch John’s frantic eyes. “Look at me,” he urged gently, and John took a shaky breath and met his gaze. “I’m fine, Moriarty didn’t have me, you didn’t leave me. Okay? _You didn’t leave me_. You’re okay, and I’m okay. Moriarty isn’t going to hurt us,” Sherlock said firmly, realizing distantly that the latter statement wasn’t something he could promise long-term. Still, it seemed to have the desired effect and slowly John began to calm down.

The fact that John had been so worried about him, that he was trying to get back to a place he’d almost died trying to escape to save Sherlock … was incredibly sobering to say the least. Another example of the unwavering bravery and loyalty of John Watson. Sherlock still couldn’t understand why he was on the receiving end of such selfless sacrifice.

Guilt pulled at Sherlock’s insides. Regardless of what Lestrade said, this _was_ all his fault, in so many ways. If he hadn’t trapped John in the lab, he never would have caught the virus. If he hadn’t been so cavalier in playing Moriarty’s twisted games, John never would have been kidnapped and covered in Semtex, and he wouldn’t be running terrified from an imaginary version of Moriarty in the PTSD delirium he was trapped in now. John wouldn’t have played explosive Russian roulette running through a minefield. How much pain had this man been subjected to (inadvertently or purposely) because of Sherlock’s desire to not be _bored_? How much more was in store?

“We need to find a place to hide. They’re going to find us out here,” John said after a few moments, wide eyes searching the darkness for threats. Sherlock couldn’t tell John that he was counting on that very thing to happen. The fact that the search party seemed to have moved off in the wrong direction was disheartening. But the edge of the cliff was still too close for comfort, and Sherlock knew how skittish John was. He needed to get him somewhere where he couldn’t run, and wait for the search party to catch up.

“The sun is coming up,” John said, frowning at the brightening sky. His shoulders slumped and his chin fell to his chest, defeated. He let out a shaky breath. “I’ve been running all night. I just … I can’t anymore. I’m so tired. My legs are like jelly.”

“Come on,” Sherlock said, standing up and helping John do the same. “Let's find some shelter and you can rest for awhile.” John nodded and took a step, paused, and swayed heavily on his feet. Sherlock steadied him, then pulled John’s arm over his shoulders and gripped him around the waist.

John’s self-assessment had been accurate. He seemed to have used the last of his energy during their standoff. Now he leaned heavily on Sherlock, stumbling every few steps as his legs buckled beneath him. Sherlock’s stomach clenched at the shift: John was suddenly so _fragile_ , and was only getting worse.

They were running out of time.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The cave they found was small and shallow, a perfect place to rest. Sherlock picked up a fist sized rock and hurled it into the darkness, hoping to scare out any other inhabitants, but it only called back a hollow crack as it struck rock and fell to the ground.

Sherlock took out his torch and did a quick sweep as they stood at the mouth of the cavern, but it was empty. He had to crouch to avoid hitting his head in a few places as they moved to the back wall, about three metres in. Sherlock settled John on the ground against the wall, then moved to examine the darker corners of their hideout.

The cave was closed with no corridors or tunnels, about the size of their sitting room at the flat. Countless roots clung to the walls like big brown ropes of ivy. Vines and branches shielded part of the entrance, and dead leaves were clumped in the corners, but the cave was unoccupied.

Sherlock knelt next to John, who had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, fighting shivers. Otherwise, he seemed much calmer now that they had shelter, and he could rest without being on such high-alert.

“You’re ill,” Sherlock stated quietly, struck with déjà vu. He’d said those same words to John not even 24 hours ago.

“Yeah,” John replied quietly, and a bit wryly. He huffed out something resembling a chuckle, but there was no humor in it, only exhaustion. “Been runnin’ through the forest all night and fightin’ the sodding flu at the same time. When it rains, it pours, I guess.”

Sherlock cleared his throat quietly trying to hide his worry over John’s slurred words. He’d heard John talk like this before, as if his tongue was too thick for his mouth, but it was always after he’d had one pint too many.

“I think I might be coming down with something myself,” Sherlock lied nonchalantly. “Sore throat? Headache?” If he could get John to identify his symptoms, Sherlock would be able to better assess how far the virus had progressed and what stage John was in.

“Yeah, and I got sick. Haven’t eaten in ages, so I didn’t really bring anything up. Body aches, chills… cold woods haven’t helped. Think it‘s making it worse than normal. Keep getting this awful whining in my ears, and I get so dizzy my vision goes dark. Never had that with the flu before. Must be a new strain. The surgery'll be swamped.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest between two large roots.

Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips in worry. John was already at phase three. Just like the human test subject, it was progressing faster in John than it had in the monkeys.

“Yes. Right. Of course.” Sherlock bit back the wave of despair that welled up within him. He wanted to confess, to tell John that it wasn’t just the flu, to beg for forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve. He swallowed against the guilt. “I’m sure we’ll both feel better when we’re somewhere warm and dry.”

Sherlock calculated that John hadn’t really had a solid meal since they checked out of the Inn almost 24 hours ago, and probably hadn’t had much to drink since then, either. He dug in one of his anorak’s cavernous pockets, and pulled out the military-issue water canteen he’d been given, uncapped it, and held it out to John. “Drink,” he commanded, and John took it with a murmured “ta,” inhaling two large gulps before he tried to hand it back. “Keep going,” Sherlock instructed. “You’re dehydrated, you need it.”

“What ‘bout you?”

“I’ll be fine. There’s a stream nearby we can refill it from if we need to.”

Normally John would have argued -- they should conserve water, natural sources might not be safe to drink, they both needed to stay hydrated -- but fatigue and thirst won out and he complied, swallowing until he’d drained almost half of the bottle. He handed it back to Sherlock and closed his eyes again.

They wouldn’t need to conserve water if they were rescued soon. So Sherlock needed to make sure that they were, indeed, rescued soon. He fished out his mobile and almost cried with joy when he saw he had a bar of signal.

“John,” he said, hesitantly.

“Mmm?”

“Lestrade knows we’re out here. He had his own team trying to find us.” John’s eyes opened in surprise, and Sherlock quickly continued. “I have signal on my mobile, I can call him. They can help us.” He held his breath waiting for John’s reaction. Lestrade really _was_ out there looking for them, and John knew Lestrade. If Sherlock could convince John that the search party was full of people on their side, instead of the enemy John imagined they were, maybe they could get back to civilization without a struggle.

“Thank _God_ ,” John breathed, laughing with relief, and Sherlock felt like a weight had lifted off him. “Does he know about Moriarty? Tell him to be careful, those men are still out there too.”

“Yes, I’ll make sure he knows,” Sherlock bit back a grin of relief. Help was practically in sight. He just needed to ensure this last bit went off without a hitch, that the search party approached with caution and didn’t startle John again. He needed to talk to Lestrade without John overhearing.

Sherlock looked down at his mobile with feigned dismay. “The signal keeps dropping in here, the rock must be interfering. I’m sure I’ll get reception outside.”

John’s expression clouded with worry. “I’ll come with. We need to stay together.”

“I won’t go far,” Sherlock reassured him, acting unconcerned. “Just a few steps. I have to take a piss too. I’ll keep the cave in sight the whole time. Just rest, I’ll be right back.”

John took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and gave a small nod. “Be careful.”

Sherlock smiled and ducked out of the cave. Dawn's sunbeams cut through the trees, highlighted in the dissipating fog like big fingers of light. Fat beads of dew hung off the tips of broad leaves, tiny globes of gleaming glass. The subdued noises of the night had given way to the enthusiastic sounds of day. Birds sang and the bushes rustled with small wildlife. It would be beautiful if the reason they were out there wasn’t so hateful.

Sherlock walked until he was still in sight of the cave but out of John’s earshot. Pulling out his mobile again, he almost leapt for joy when he saw he now had two bars of service. He just hoped Lestrade had signal too, or he’d have to call Mycroft instead.

Lestrade picked up on the fourth ring.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice was full of surprise and relief. “Oh my god, where the hell are you? Are you all right? We just called the search dog back in--”

“I’m with John,” Sherlock cut in. “I was able to get him to recognize me. We’re holed up in a cave, south of the river, maybe half a kilometer?”

“How is he?”

Sherlock swallowed. “It’s … not good. We need to get him out of here now. He’s already falling into phase three.” He could hear Lestrade swear under his breath on the other side of the line. “I have a signal on my phone. Contact Mycroft, I’m sure he must have a similar tracker to what I used to find John’s phone activated on mine.”

Sherlock never dreamed he’d be thankful for one of Mycroft’s surveillance measures.

“Right, hang on,” Lestrade said, then Sherlock heard his muffled voice instructing someone to get Mycroft on the phone. “Okay, I’ve got men on it as we speak.”

“Listen, this is important,” Sherlock continued. “John recognizes me, and he trusts me, but he still thinks Moriarty’s men are hunting us. I’ve told him that you know we’re out here and you are leading your own search party to find us. It has to be _you_ to make first contact, Lestrade. Approach slowly and quietly. He’s fading fast, but he’s still paranoid and I don’t want to startle him. Make sure the rest of the team understands that they have to react appropriately. They have to pretend you’re the leader of the team, and they’re working for Scotland Yard.”

“Got it,” Lestrade agreed, then the line was muffled again as someone else spoke in the background. “We’ve got you on the map. Just stay where you are.  We’re about twenty minutes out. Half hour, tops.” Lestrade’s voice dropped in volume a little; more private, more personal. “It’s going to be okay, Sherlock. We’re going get John out of here and get him that antiviral -- which your brother has waiting back at the base as we speak. Before you know it, John will be back to normal, and he’ll be mad at us for taking the piss and never letting him live this whole thing down, yeah?”

Sherlock swallowed, but could only hum in response as his throat grew tight with emotion.

“We’re on our way,” Lestrade said, and they ended the call. Sherlock stood looking at his mobile for a moment, wanting to laugh and cry with relief. He turned and walked back to tell John the good news.

“Lestrade is on his way, they were able to triangulate our position --” Sherlock smiled as he ducked back into the cave, looking to John as his eyes adjusted back to the dimness. The relief didn’t last long.

John’s arms were hooked around the top of his knees, and his mouth and nose rested on his forearms. John’s bloodshot eyes and the dark circles beneath them stood out on his pale face, and Sherlock could see he was trying to focus with each fluttering blink, staring into the middle distance, not quite seeing anything. He rocked himself slowly as he shivered, as if in a trance. He didn’t even notice Sherlock had returned.

Sherlock knelt next to him and brushed the matted fringe from John’s hot forehead. He was burning up.

“John? Are you all right?” Sherlock asked softly, squeezing John’s shoulder. No response. “ _John_.”

John took a deep breath and lifted his head, blinking a few times as he emerged from his daze. His nose had been bleeding again; his lip was smeared with the gore, and there was a dark spot on his jacket sleeve where his nose had rested. He blinked quickly and looked over at Sherlock, “Sorry, yeah. Jus’ … tired. An’ cold.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He’d been gone five minutes at the most. The situation was deteriorating too quickly.

Sherlock dug in his pockets, grateful to find a crumpled paper towel he’d absentmindedly saved after his talk with Lestrade in the loo last night. He straightened it out and gently held John’s chin as he wiped the blood off his upper lip. Then he pulled off his anorak and draped it over John.

“Ta,” John managed, with a weak smile.

Sherlock’s responding smile didn’t reach his worried eyes. He sat down next to John. “Just a little longer, John. Help is on the way. Lestrade will be here soon. It’s going to be okay.”

“Mmmm.” John’s eyes were slipping closed again, chin starting to fall to his chest. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then wrapped his arm around John and gently guided him to lay back against him. John sighed and relaxed into Sherlock without hesitation. He rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and was asleep in seconds, even as his body continued to tremble, racked with chills.

It was a position closer and more intimate than any they had ever shared, and Sherlock couldn’t decide if he wanted to remember every detail of it, or permanently wipe it from his mind. These could be their final hours together. Looking down at John’s fragile form in his arms, Sherlock’s throat was tight with unshed tears.

He wanted to stay like this forever, to feel the comforting weight of John’s body against his own.

When it came to John Watson, Sherlock had given into idle fantasy more often than he wanted to admit. John fascinated Sherlock on a daily basis; he was open and honest, yet somehow still an enigma who perplexed Sherlock. It was obvious he enjoyed joining Sherlock on cases, lured in by the thrill of risk, addicted to the possibility of danger that accompanied the criminal investigations they were called in on. But even when they were doing something as mundane as making dinner or playing a board game, John seemed to genuinely enjoy Sherlock’s company. No one had ever tolerated him like that before, let alone took pleasure in his companionship, and Sherlock doubted anyone ever would again.

Still, Sherlock was caught off guard by the stronger feelings he had begun to develop for John. He didn’t even know he was capable of such sentiment, and had been sure if he did (theoretically) fall prey to such emotions one day, he’d be able to brush them aside and move on. The heart should never be allowed to rule the head, after all. But he was helpless in the face of his flatmate. Brave, strong, loyal, kind John Watson: Sherlock’s first real friend, and now the subject of his awkwardly concealed affection.

He knew John didn’t feel the same way for him, and maybe that made it easier. Feeling sentiment was hard enough; acting on it would surely be much worse. It would be best for both of them if Sherlock kept his feelings to himself.

But he _had_ dreamed of holding John close, imagined feeling their bodies pressed together. What would it be like to feel John’s heart beating under his ribs? To feel the warmth of his skin in Sherlock’s hands? To inhale the scent of John where his neck met his shoulder? To hold John close in his arms, fit together like puzzle pieces, making up the complete picture of them?

This moment was supposed to feel like a relief, an _at last._ A dream finally realized. Instead it was a nightmare, the universe showing Sherlock how horribly selfish he had been by giving him what he’d always wanted while at the same time showing him how he’d already destroyed it.

Instead of comforting warmth, John radiated fever. The human scent of him -- shampoo and tea and _John_ \-- was overpowered by sweat and blood and the moor. John’s normal, steady, strong breathing was replaced with rapid, pained inhalations. Tremors ran through them both as John shivered against Sherlock; his body, usually so steady and sure, fighting an internal war it was doomed to lose.

The future loomed dark and foreboding. In this moment, John was still alive. In this godforsaken forest, in this cold, damp cave, John was still breathing, his heart still beating. As much as they needed to get to safety, the idea of this moment ending and having to move on to the next step, to the inevitable next phase of this illness, terrified Sherlock to his core.

Rustling near the cave entrance pulled Sherlock from his reverie. How long had he been lost in his own thoughts? He blinked back the tears lining his eyes and sniffed as he sat up straight, and peered out into the woods.

When Lestrade cautiously stepped into view, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Lestrade paused as his eyes adjusted, shoulders drooping in relief as he spotted them. He tiptoed through the cave carefully, silently, then squatted next to Sherlock while he looked John over from head to toe. He turned to Sherlock, brows knitted together in worry, and gestured to his own chest, then pointed at John’s, covered in dried blood.

Sherlock tapped his own nose in silent explanation and Lestrade nodded once, lips pursed. Finally, he leaned low to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“Medics are waiting with the rest of the team outside. They know the drill. The ambulance was able to get closer to where we are now, it won’t be a far hike out.”

Sherlock nodded, then turned to look at John, whose forehead had fallen to rest in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his cheek against Sherlock’s chest. Any other time, it would be wonderful instead of heartbreaking. Stapleton’s voice echoed in Sherlock’s head: _“Two of the twenty monkeys tested lost consciousness at this point and did not regain it.”_ He swallowed against a flood of panic. John was going to open his eyes. Of course he was.

“John,” he whispered, gently squeezing his arm, “John, it’s time to wake up.”

John shifted and moaned in protest.

“Come on John, Lestrade is here with help. We’re being rescued.”

John’s eyes fluttered open and Sherlock felt himself let out the breath he’d been holding. Beside him, Lestrade did the same.

“Rescued?” he questioned, his voice a rasp.

“Hey, John,” Greg said gently, the warm smile on his face betrayed by the concern that still shone in his eyes. John immediately tensed in Sherlock’s arms, then turned his head to look at Lestrade uneasily. Time seemed to drag on for an eternity, then finally John broke out in a smile.

“Took you long ‘nough!” he joked weakly, and Sherlock couldn’t help the relieved laugh that bubbled out of him.

Greg’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit, flinching in worry at John’s slow, slurred speech, but then he grinned just as quickly and John wasn’t in any state to notice. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Some of the guys wanted to try to catch our dinner down by the river first. Thought we’d have fish and chips tonight.”

“Didn’t happen to catch a cow, did you? I’m more in the mood for a burger,” John said seriously in mock disappointment.

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers!” Lestrade laughed, “just consider yourself lucky we weren’t craving frog legs instead!” He caught Sherlock’s eyes and gave him an encouraging look that said, _see, I told you it’s going to be fine!_

Sherlock helped John sit up, and Lestrade stood and held out his hand to help John to his feet. He swayed for a moment, gripping Sherlock and Greg’s outstretched arms for support, then found his balance and took a shaky step on his own. The short kip seemed to have given him back some energy, Sherlock noticed, remembering how John had clung to him for support only an hour ago. Now he walked slowly, but without help.

“Sherlock told me you were under the weather, so we brought some help to get you out of here a little faster,” Greg said as they stepped out of the cave. Major Barrymore, four medics, and six soldiers stood together in front of them, an orange plastic Sked stretcher assembled at their feet.

John stopped and exhaled heavily at the sight of it, and Sherlock was already planning the most effective way to persuade John when he instead heard a shaky “okay.” The look on John’s face was nothing short of grateful, and relief and trepidation hit Sherlock at the same time. It was better that John would go willingly, but bad that he felt so ill that he wouldn’t even put up a superficial fight over being carried out by others. John began walking toward the stretcher, Lestrade steadying him with a hand on his back.

One of the medics stepped forward and knelt, ready to help John down onto the stretcher. Behind her, at the back of the group, sat the search dog.

The color drained from John’s face and his eyes went wide. His head whipped up to look at the assembled team, then back at Lestrade. All the recognition and trust was gone in a heartbeat. He stumbled backward a few steps, free of Lestrade’s guiding hand, away from the group. Sherlock moved with him, staying at his side without thinking.

John looked at Lestrade in shock. “You lied! You’re working for _him_ ,” he rasped. “You’re working for _Moriarty!”_

Lestrade’s eyes were wide, and he held his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. “No John, I promise you, I’m here to help you. I’m not working for Moriarty. You know me, right? Look at me, you know me, it’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.” His voice was calm, like a hostage negotiator’s. “I’m your _friend_. I’m just trying to help you. You’re sick and you need medical attention. I promise, it’s okay, we’re on your side.”

John brought his trembling hands up to his temples, looking around in disbelief and horror. His eyes darted frantically, looking for a way out, but he was trapped by the wall of soldiers in front of him and the cave behind.

“John,” Sherlock murmured from beside him, and although John flinched in surprise, he didn’t move to try and get away. John turned his head to look at Sherlock quickly, and he could tell: John still recognized him, and still trusted him. “It’s all right. They’re here to help us.”

“No, Sherlock,” John hissed, breath heaving, eyes locked on Lestrade and the team behind him. Lestrade was speaking quietly but furiously to Major Barrymore, and two soldiers began leading the dog away, back into the forest. John watched it go, then let his eyes briefly flick to Sherlock’s. “It’s a trap! I know them. They’re working for Moriarty. That’s the same dog Moriarty’s men were using to track me!”

“John, I promise you, Lestrade is our friend. He and his team have been looking for us. They don’t work for Moriarty, they’re on our side. They’re going to help us get home.”

“We have to run,” John whispered, as if he hadn’t heard anything Sherlock said. “I’ll go left, you go right, we might have a chance if we --”

“John, stop,” Sherlock said gently, wrapping his hand around John’s bicep. John looked down in surprise, then his face clouded with confusion.

“Sherlock?”

“I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you. These people are here to help. You’re safe. It’s going to be okay.”

John’s eyes filled with horrified disbelief and he tried to jerk his arm away, but Sherlock held firmly. “Let me go!” John demanded, more desperate with each moment, eyes boring into Sherlock’s, searching for answers, begging him to understand.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock soothed, even as his grip tightened on John’s arm. He reached to grab the other and John took a weak swing at him. Sherlock ducked easily, but in a flash John was wrenched from his grasp, on his back in the leaves, pinned to the ground by two men in fatigues.

John screamed, primal fear pouring out of him, echoing through the forest. He fought with all he had, kicking and twisting against the men holding his arms down, but he was too weak to overpower them.

“No!” Sherlock yelled, searching for Lestrade, who looked equally shocked and horrified by the turn of events. They both turned to see Barrymore talking to two medics. One nodded and reached into a pouch on her belt, uncapping a syringe.  

 _“SHERLOCK!”_ John screamed, thrashing wildly. Sherlock clenched his jaw and forced himself to meet John’s wild, pleading eyes. John caught sight of the medics approaching with Barrymore and fought harder, nearly bucking one of the soldiers off him. “SHERLOCK! HELP ME!”

Sherlock stepped forward, hand outstretched to stop them. “Wait, you can’t--”

“We tried it your way and _it didn’t work_ ,” Barrymore snarled. “Now I’m doing what we should have done in the first place. We don’t have time to fuck around anymore to spare his _feelings_.” He nodded to the medics who knelt near John’s hip, one working quickly to cut a hole in the upper right leg of John’s jeans, while the other held his legs down as he struggled to kick out at them.

“No! Let me _GO!”_ John sobbed. The unbridled terror and desperation in his voice made Sherlock’s heart clench, but Barrymore was right. John might have been in hospital hours ago if Sherlock hadn’t fought against the tranquilizer guns in the first place.

Now, his screams pierced the quiet of the forest. “SHERLOCK! _PLEASE!_ HELP ME!”

Sherlock fought against the tightness in his throat, forcing himself to look John in the eyes again. All this pain and fear, all of the trauma, every bit of it was Sherlock’s fault. The weight of it was crushing. Watching John struggle, hearing him plead, and having to stand by and let it happen -- for John’s own good -- was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. This was a punishment he deserved, even if he wished for mercy, because John himself would get none.

“It’s okay, John,” he managed, trying to sound soothing even as his own voice trembled, “They’re going to help you.”

Despair washed over John with Sherlock’s words. He slumped in shocked defeat, chest heaving, his eyes full of confusion and horrified _betrayal_ as they bored into Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock…?” he whimpered, the fight suddenly gone from his voice, and the quiet horror that replaced it was somehow more painful than his screams. “Sherlock, please…” A tear fell from the corner of his eye, tracking a wet line toward his temple. Sherlock struggled to swallow back his own.

The moment was shattered as the needle broke skin, and John howled in anguish, resuming his fight hopelessly, knowing it was too late as the sedative flooded his system. He sobbed, blinking up at the sky, breathing in shuddering gasps as his body began to relax. John weakly turned his head, and the look Sherlock found when their eyes met was full of such fear and disappointment, he couldn’t help but whisper, “I’m so sorry” as John finally surrendered to unconsciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal thanks to my incredible betas hotshoeagain and thats-for-me-to-know, and the incredible J_Baillier for her medical expertise (which I've now backfilled into the rest of the story for medical accuracy) and patience with me and all my crazy questions about sedation. Godsends, the lot of you!
> 
> Also, the DRACO antiviral discussed in this chapter is real, and it's pretty incredible (could cure all viruses!), but lacking funding. They've had to resort to IndieGoGo to raise money to continue the research, and what they're asking for isn't much compared to what this could do for humankind. Read more here: https://riderinstitute.org/pages/draco

The silence after the struggle was deafening. For a few moments after John’s eyes fell shut, even the forest felt still, as if it was as unsettled by the turn of events as the men and women standing in the aftermath. The birdsong that broke the quiet seemed as violent as a gunshot.

Medics began to speak quietly amongst themselves, checking John’s vital signs before shifting his body onto the orange plastic search & rescue stretcher and securing him in place. His slack, pale features made him seem more vulnerable, and Sherlock had to look away. He scrubbed a hand over his face, turning to pace away the adrenaline that suddenly flooded through him. Fury, regret, and guilt made him want to lash out at anyone and everyone nearby, but he knew that would be a self-indulgent distraction they couldn’t afford right now.

Ironically, he could hear John admonishing him, even as the man himself lay unconscious only feet away.

_These people are only trying to help. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you._

As if on cue, Lestrade was at his side, remorseful relief in his eyes. “The medics say we’re ready to move. Ambulance is waiting about a mile from here; shouldn’t take us long.” Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded once, looking at the ground with his hands on his hips, steeling himself a moment more before following Lestrade back to the group.

Soldiers surrounded John and lifted the stretcher gently, with a few leading the way, plotting a path through the forest. Major Barrymore headed the group, no doubt happy to leave Lestrade in charge of diffusing the powder keg of emotions that was Sherlock. They brought up the rear, walking side by side in silence listening to the tactical chatter of the team.

Sherlock bit his lip, watching the top of John’s heather blond head as he was carefully maneuvered over obstacles in the landscape. John’s shocked, scared expression clouded his mind’s eye, and the desperation in his pleading words; _“Sherlock, please…”_ rang in his ears.  

As time wore on, Sherlock could feel Lestrade examining him out of the corner of his eye, and when the DI finally inhaled as if to speak, Sherlock beat him to it.

“He thinks I _betrayed_ him.” The statement was quiet but heavy.

Lestrade let out the breath he’d just taken in a slow, heavy sigh.

“Sherlock … you know he’s not thinking straight,” Greg reasoned, shaking his head. “You did exactly what you had to do so we can get him the help he needs. When he’s in his right mind again, you know he’ll tell you the same thing.”

“If he ever makes it back to his _right mind_ .” Sherlock had meant it to sound biting, but the words came out laced with sorrow. “It may be that the last thoughts he has of me are that I sold him out. That I handed him to the enemy. For all the unwavering loyalty he’s shown me … when he _trusted_ me with his _life_ I just stood by and --”

“And you gave us a shot at _saving_ his life, Sherlock,” Lestrade cut him off, turning to stop Sherlock with a hand on his chest. Sherlock grit his teeth and seethed with self-hatred, refusing to make eye contact and instead staring at a tree over Lestrade’s shoulder as if he could burn a hole in it with his anger. Lestrade was unfazed. “You didn’t betray his trust, I promise you. Tell me, how else could that situation have ended? Once he saw the dog --”

“ _Damn_ that wretched dog!” Sherlock spat, and soldiers ahead of them threw surprised glances back over their shoulders at his outburst.

“I know, I know,” Greg agreed quietly, trying to calm him. “Look, I’m going to give Major Barrymore the benefit of the doubt and assume there was a miscommunication.” Sherlock shot him a disbelieving look and Lestrade rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Whatever it was, it’s over now. It happened. John saw the dog and it all went to shit. But what else could we have done, Sherlock? I’m not happy they had to use force either, but he’s not rational right now and we couldn’t risk him running again. We don’t have the time. _He_ doesn’t have the time.”

Any argument Sherlock could have built fell apart with the weight of Lestrade’s assertion. They couldn’t change the past, and in the end there hadn’t been another way. Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath and turned on his heel, running a hand through his hair as he stalked off to catch up to the group. Greg sighed and followed.

Sherlock could not remember a time when he’d felt so helpless. The fear he’d experienced at Dewer’s Hollow had been different: more primitive somehow, full of fight-or-flight hormones but none of the deeper emotional terror he felt now.

This was a more existential fear, a string plucked at the center of his being that reverberated dread through his whole body; his whole life. John had become so woven into the fabric of Sherlock’s existence that the loss of him would surely bring about a catastrophic unravelling. It wasn’t just that Sherlock would lose his flatmate, friend, and colleague. He’d lose his sounding board, his confidante, his moral compass. He’d lose his humanity, because every bit of the humanity he dared to let show was a result of John’s influence.

Sherlock hadn’t realized how hard he’d fought all his life to stand alone, struggling to remain upright against the buffeting storms of a world where he didn’t fit in. John changed it all; fighting alongside Sherlock without hesitation, shielding Sherlock from the gales and providing shelter when he needed refuge. Sherlock hadn’t understood his own weariness until John gave him rest by helping to bear his burdens. He hadn’t learned he could trust someone so completely until John had shown him true allegiance. Battling the world again in solitude was unfathomable, and Sherlock knew he wouldn’t have the energy or motivation to do it without John by his side.

Lestrade gave Sherlock his space, keeping a few paces between them for the rest of the hike. But when they finally reached the waiting ambulance, he stood silently at Sherlock’s side as the paramedics transferred John from the rescue stretcher to a gurney. They worked quickly, placing an oxygen mask over John’s face, taking his vitals, and cutting his sleeve to start an IV.

“Your brother put together a team of the best doctors and nurses,” Lestrade said quietly. “And Doctor Stapleton and her team have been working all night, using Frankland’s notes to figure out where he went wrong. They think they know what he missed when it comes to the treatment. Don’t give up, Sherlock.”

Black straps were secured across John’s chest and knees, but Sherlock’s heart sank when they fastened John’s wrists and ankles in soft restraints. He was still out cold, face completely lax, body limp.

One of paramedics noticed Sherlock’s tortured expression. “It’s for his safety,” he said apologetically, but in a tone that suggested there was no room for debate. In a blink, Sherlock read his long-term military service, time spent overseas, and new baby at home. The embroidered patch on his chest read LT. GRAHAM.

“Is there space in there for him?” Lestrade asked the lieutenant, gesturing with a dip of his head to Sherlock. “If John wakes up, this is the only person who can get through to him right now.”

Lieutenant Graham thought for a moment, looking Sherlock up and down, then gave a slow, single nod. “Mister Holmes, right?” Sherlock hummed the affirmative and Graham continued, expression tight. “Major Barrymore mentioned you’d ride back with the rest of the team, but … there’s a jump seat you can use positioned behind his head. We can’t have you interfering if we need to use medical intervention, though. You need to let us do our jobs.”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured, too tired to do anything but acquiesce. He distantly realized that Lestrade’s civil request probably tipped the scales in his favor more than his planned demand to ride along would have. He climbed into the ambulance, folded down the jump seat, and sank into it heavily. Looking out the back of the ambulance, he met Lestrade’s eyes then dropped his own in humility, a silent thank you. Lestrade gave him a small, knowing smile and nodded, then walked off toward the waiting trucks.

John was quickly loaded up, and Lieutenant Graham climbed in, followed by a tall, thin woman whose name badge read LT. RICHMOND. They checked the straps and IV, then Richmond called an “all set, ready to move,” to the driver.

The ride was mostly quiet. John’s vitals were stable and there wasn’t anything else to be done until they got to the hospital. Sherlock focused on the steady, quick beep of the heart rate monitor, and gently brushed a dead leaf from John’s hair, softly combing his fingers through to get rid of smaller flecks of forest debris nestled in the golden strands.

Once the sedative began to lose its grip, John moaned, weakly trying to move his arms and lift his head as his face contorted in anguish. Sherlock had seen him do the same when was having a nightmare. John’s heart rate and respiration began to increase with his distress, and Sherlock leaned over, placing one hand on John’s shoulder, the other still brushing through his hair. He kept his voice low, whispering soothing platitudes into his ear as Richmond injected another dose of midazolam into the port on John’s IV. With a quiet whimper, he relaxed, head falling back heavily against Sherlock’s hand.

After a radio call with Stapleton, John was also given clonidine to help with the last dregs of the storm of stress hormones brought on by the hallucinogen. In this state, excess adrenaline was doing his body no favours.

It was unnerving, the feeling of sending John deeper into sleep instead of waking him as Sherlock usually did during John’s night terrors, saving him from the darkness of his own mind by bringing him back to the light. The surrealness of the last few days made Sherlock wish he was asleep too, that this was all a bad dream, but there would be no waking from this nightmare for either of them this time.

And right now for John, being awake might actually be the scarier option. 

Sherlock swallowed against the thickness in his throat, pushing aside the current situation and trying to plan for what came next.

“Which hospital are we going to?”

He recalled those in the area and calculated how long it would take to drive from Devon back to London.

“We’re going back to the base, Mr Holmes,” Graham reported. “We have facilities ready to treat Doctor Watson there.”

Sherlock was stunned. “That’s unacceptable, we need to get to a _real_ hospital. Tell Major Barrymore --”

Richmond cut him off firmly. “Our orders come from _Mycroft_ Holmes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

It was impossible to keep up with all of the conversations and activity that surrounded John when they arrived at Baskerville. Sherlock’s mind was clouded with emotions and his own maelstrom of thoughts. 

The ward was empty of patients except for John, back in the very bed he’d fled from the day before. All of the curtains had been pulled back, making the whole unit into one large room. Nurses worked to remove John’s clothes, initiate more thorough monitoring of his vitals, and take blood samples. Doctor Stapleton and a team of doctors in white coats stood aside speaking in low tones, waiting to move in and perform their own examinations.

Sherlock knew enough to keep himself out of the paths of the medical staff. As much as he yearned to close the distance between them, John needed medical intervention more than Sherlock needed sentimental comfort. He took in as much as he could from his space near the foot of the bed, forcing his wandering mind to listen to the information being called out. John’s heart rate was still too high at 106 bpm but understandable with the fever that had now climbed to 39.5, and blood pressure too low at 80 over 60. At least his oxygen saturation level was 94% and the blood gas analysis already performed bedside revealed no significant abnormalities. They were not quite in dangerous territory yet.

The fluorescent lights made John look grey except for the febrile flush of pink that had risen in his cheeks. Sherlock was struck by how vulnerable John appeared, unconscious and completely listless as he was jostled by the nurses. Sherlock bit his lip and looked away, trying to clear his thoughts and compare John’s vital signs with the phases of the virus, when his eyes landed on Lestrade standing outside the doors to the unit. He wasn’t alone.

Mycroft stood stoically leaning on his umbrella watching the proceedings through the glass, subtly nodding at whatever Lestrade was saying.

Sherlock glanced back at John, still sedated and surrounded by medical professionals, and stalked out of the ward.

He stopped when he was toe to toe with his brother. Lestrade took a step back to give them space. “Why did you have them bring us back _here_?” Sherlock demanded. “We need to get John to a _real_ _hospital_ , not this mad science laboratory full of monsters and criminal chemists!”

“Lower your voice, please,” Mycroft said calmly.

Lestrade cleared his throat, eyebrows raised. “I’ll just … go and make sure everything’s all right with John,” he stammered, looking relieved to have an excuse to retreat. Mycroft watched him go and turned to glower at Sherlock, exhaling a frustrated breath through flared nostrils. He took hold of Sherlock’s elbow, and pulled him to a quieter spot further down the corridor.

Not about to be lectured, Sherlock spoke first. “He needs a _hospital_ , Mycroft. With medical experts and full facilities. He’s not an experiment.”

“I have assembled the best team of doctors you could possibly find in the British Isles, Sherlock,” Mycroft argued. “The nation’s leading virologist, cardiologist, and neurologist are examining Doctor Watson as we speak, and collaborating with Doctor Stapleton to give him the best chance at overcoming this illness. I have other specialists on call, ready to be brought in at a moment’s notice, including the scientist who developed the DRACO antiviral we’re using.

“I assure you, Baskerville is a fully-functioning facility with access to any medical resources Doctor Watson may require, including state-of-the-art equipment the likes of which you’ve never seen. Even intensive care can be provided right here, securely and comfortably. You know as well as I that we can’t bring him to a _civilian_ _hospital_ infected with an obscure virus he acquired at a _top-secret weapons base_ _funded by the_ _British government_!” Mycroft’s voice had risen to an incredulous roar at the end, and he took a breath to collect himself and recover his indifferent façade.

In any other situation, Sherlock would have revelled in provoking his brother enough to get that kind of rise out of him. Now, he only wanted Mycroft to see reason.  

“Will they even _want_ to cure him here?” Sherlock spat, “or is he just a convenient test subject for them? As you mentioned, this _is_ a ‘top-secret weapons base’ and bioterrorism is all the rage these days -- maybe they’d prefer to refine Frankland’s work instead of destroying it -- how wonderful! They already have a guinea pig! He could be worth more to them dead than alive.”

“I assure you, Sherlock, there will be dire consequences for this whole base if Doctor Watson does not survive, and in fact, even if he does. It is undoubtedly in their best interests to keep him alive and to destroy Doctor Frankland’s virus. Your concerns are understandable; the same occured to me. But Doctor Stapleton is heading the recovery team and I have found she is of high moral character, despite her daughter’s unfortunate incident with the _pet rabbit_.” His mouth curled around the last word in distaste before he continued. “She seems fond of Doctor Watson and yourself, although I can’t fathom how the latter is true … still, I believe she is trustworthy, and I think once you’ve calmed down,  you’ll arrive at the same conclusion.”

The tension largely diffused, Sherlock stared at the floor in petulant defeat. Mycroft extended his arm to look at his watch.

“I have a meeting with Major Barrymore. We’ll be discussing the permanent disposal of materials related to the virus, as well as the investigation into the identity of Frankland’s human test subject, and assessing personnel who need debriefing. I feel you have earned the right to be a part of the discussion, but I am aware your priorities may lie elsewhere right now.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he searched Mycroft’s expression for hints at an ulterior motive, but all he found was honesty and exhaustion. Sherlock turned back toward the medical unit, looking over his shoulder at his brother. “I trust you’ll keep me posted?”

Mycroft gave a slow, single nod. “And I’ll ask you to do the same.”

Sherlock dipped his head in agreement, and they parted ways, moving down the corridor in opposite directions.

 

* * *

 

The conference room was sparse and sterile; the walls, floor, and ceiling gleaming bright white under fluorescent lights. A whiteboard hung on one side of the room, a projector screen on the opposite wall. A standard black and white analog clock ticked above the door. The long black table was surrounded by silver rolling office chairs, half of which were now occupied by white-coated doctors and scientists. All the monochromatic tones made the whole situation feel muted and surreal. Sherlock’s own fog-colored shirt and black trousers couldn’t help ground him in reality. He thought of the purple button-up John had been wearing, falling in ribbons onto the floor as the nurses cut it off his body.

The door opened and Lestrade entered, ducking his head sheepishly as he murmured an apology for being the last one there. The bright blue shirt he was wearing was like an instant switch, suddenly making the situation real with its saturation. Sherlock felt sluggish, and even though his mind spun, the thoughts were hazy, tangled with worry.

He hadn’t seen John for almost two hours. They’d kept him sedated and whisked him off for a CT scan, chest x-ray, and a lumbar puncture, among other tests, and then the doctors wanted to meet to discuss their preliminary findings and plan of attack.

Lestrade sat down next to Sherlock, who sat at the foot of the table.

“I believe we’re all here now,” Doctor Stapleton began, looking around the room quickly inventorying the occupants: a neurologist, cardiologist, virologist, internist specialising in tropical and emergent infectious diseases, and anaesthesiologist, as well as the head nurse and two of the scientists who had been helping with research. “We’ll have Doctor Hernandez begin with the neurology report.”

“Thank you, Doctor Stapleton,” Doctor Hernandez said, nodding. “The head CT showed no evidence of swelling so far, but the lumbar puncture did indicate the virus is present in the cerebrospinal fluid, and from what we understand of the way this virus progresses, more symptoms typical of encephalitis will likely appear soon. That’s what we’ve concluded the human test subject most likely experienced.”

The cardiologist, Doctor Dalal, was next. “We’re noticing an increasing arrhythmia, which is consistent with Doctor Frankland’s reports on the virus. Doctor Watson presented with borderline low blood pressure, so we’re monitoring that closely in case we need to intervene bring it back to a normal level.”

“Thank you, Doctor Dalal,” Doctor Stapleton smiled politely, then looked to Sherlock and Lestrade. “Do you have any questions so far?”

“What about the antiviral drug?”  

The virologist, a bespectacled man named Doctor Lewis, spoke up. “Doctor Frankland was working on antiviral therapies to cure the virus, as a failsafe option in case any of his client’s forces inadvertently got infected. He tried most of of the more mainstream antivirals, but it’s an emerging field and there is still a lot of progress to be made. This virus is obviously much more complex than something like common influenza, since it’s a chimaera of different ones with some tailored bits added in. According to Frankland’s notes, the base frame was the chimpanzee lymphocryptovirus, also known as Pongine herpesvirus one, and we have no experience using the current antiviral agents against that. I shudder to think how they must’ve modified it to take to humans and not just other primates. Even though it’s not contagious from person to person, this needs to be kept contained. Humans and primates act as reservoirs for herpesviruses; if this got out it might become a permanent part of our infectious landscape, and all it would take for it to become an epidemic is probably a somewhat simple, opportunistic mutation.”

“The Epstein-Barr -virus is part of that genus of viruses, and its interactions with the immune system are very complex and the consequences can span years,” the internist piped in.

Doctor Lewis nodded. “The antiviral we’re using now is known as DRACO -- that stands for Double-stranded RNA Activated Caspase Oligomerizer. Viruses are made of double-helix strands of RNA. DRACO is able to identify those strands and bind to them, activating a sort of ‘suicide switch’ that destroys virus-infected cells while leaving healthy cells alone. It’s still in the testing phases, but we think it has the best chance of success. In trials, DRACO has cured viruses including the H1N1 ‘swine flu,’ two new-world Tacaribe viruses, Hantavirus Hemorrhagic fever, and Dengue fever. It seems to have effect in most major viral families, which is why we’re hoping it would knock down a herpesvirus variant, too.”

Doctor Stapleton nodded in agreement and looked to Sherlock. “Thanks to your brother, we were able to acquire DRACO, and we’ve given Doctor Watson the first dose already. We’re going to be closely monitoring his viral load to decide if and when he’ll need another dose and if the drug is having a favourable effect. Now, unfortunately we just have to wait and let it do its job, and try to manage the other symptoms as they emerge.”

“How long it will take until we see improvement?” Sherlock said, leaning forward on his elbows.

“We’re hoping it will be evident within the next 12 hours, hopefully before Doctor Watson reaches phase four. We’ll be performing blood tests every three hours to track the viral load and his leucocyte distribution.”

Phase four. _Fever moves into dangerous territory; between 40 and 41º. The brain swells, similar to encephalitis. Seizures were experienced in 75% of the monkeys and the human subject. Cardiac arrhythmias and respiratory distress were found in every test subject._

Sherlock swallowed. “Will you continue to sedate him?”

Doctor Stapleton deferred to the anesthesiologist, a dark-haired man with a thick mustache. “Doctor Vargas?”

“We’d prefer to keep him conscious to monitor the progression of the illness, but his altered mental state has made him a danger to himself and others --”

Sherlock cut him off defensively: “He’s _scared_ ; he’s just trying to get away.”

Doctor Vargas blinked in irritation at being interrupted, then smiled tightly. “Yes, we understand that. And his desperation can be a dangerous thing, as we’ve already witnessed multiple times. We aren’t judging him for his actions, Mr Holmes, we’re just laying out the facts. We understand he’s delirious and gravely ill. And considering the arrhythmias, we need to avoid putting more strain on his central nervous system, so he needs to stay calm and resting.” He looked across the table to Doctor Dalal who nodded in agreement.

Doctor Hernandez leaned forward and addressed Sherlock. “We allowed him to come out of the sedation completely after the lumbar puncture so I could assess his mental status myself, but he was incredibly … agitated.” Hernandez said, choosing the word carefully.

Anger swelled within Sherlock. “He was ambushed in the forest by people he thought were hunting him, then woke up in a room full of strangers, strapped to a bed, covered in tubes and wires, which was what set him off to begin with! _Agitated_ ? I’m sure he was absolutely _terrified!_ I should have been in the room. I was assured I’d be there when he came out of sedation.”

“Mr Holmes, with all respect, we were trying to keep the situation from getting out of hand. We wanted to minimise his stress --” Doctor Hernandez said in a pacifying tone.

Lestrade cut in, outraged, “All you did was _add_ stress!”

Standing his ground, Hernandez was indignant now. “It was important we had a baseline on his temperament. It was all perfectly safe!”

 _Laboratory conditions, quite literally,_ Sherlock’s mind filled in, and he flinched, further arguments dying with the flashback.

Doctor Stapleton held out her hands to stop the argument. “We’re all on the same side here, we shouldn’t waste time fighting. Mr Holmes, we’ll make sure you’re present in the future when Doctor Watson is allowed to emerge from sedation,” she looked pointedly at Doctor Hernandez; a command, not a request.

“We’ve given him something to help him sleep,” she continued. “He’s had quite a night between his physical exertion and the illness. He’s exhausted, as I assume you yourselves must be.” She made eye contact with Sherlock and Lestrade who sighed and nodded. 

“Are you still restraining him?” Sherlock asked.

Doctor Stapleton nodded regretfully. “For the time being, yes. We’ll reevaluate the need as he adjusts to the sedation.”

Sherlock stared at the fake wood grain in the black table, mindlessly rubbing a whorl with his finger. “When he wakes, will he be aware of what’s happening? Can I talk to him?”

_Can I try to explain? Can I beg for his forgiveness?_

Doctor Vargas nodded. “Our aim is to keep him conscious and he should be coherent, but the main goal is to keep him calm and comfortable. Chances are he’ll be disoriented, both from the illness and the sedation. I wouldn’t set your expectations too high. If the situation calls for us to use large doses of sedation, it could compromise his airway, and we’ll have to put him under and intubate.”

The meeting adjourned, and Doctor Stapleton stood to escort them back to the medical unit. Doctor Dalal approached her with a question and she motioned with a finger for Sherlock and Lestrade to wait.

Sherlock’s stomach was a pit of nerves at the thought of seeing John again, and he was too caught up in his own thoughts to remember he was supposed to update Mycroft until Lestrade mentioned it.

“Should probably let your brother know what’s going on,” he said, pulling out his mobile. “No doubt he’ll be tied up with that meeting all day, and I promised I’d keep him posted.”

Sherlock frowned in surprise. “ _You_ promised _Mycroft_?”

Lestrade oozed fake nonchalance. “Yeah, I mean … I knew you’d both be busy looking after things and I figured I could make myself useful keeping the … uh … lines of communication open.”

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. It didn’t matter, and it would save him the trouble of organizing his thoughts enough to have a conversation with Mycroft.

Doctor Stapleton finally approached and led them from the conference room toward the medical unit. Lestrade stopped outside where he still had mobile signal to call Mycroft.

The curtain was drawn around John’s bed when they entered the ward, but Sherlock could see the lights had been dimmed behind the cloth. Even the monitors were quieter, and Sherlock saw the rhythms were also being broadcast to a screen at the nurses station.

Doctor Stapleton’s voice was hushed when she spoke. “We’re trying to minimize stimulation so he can sleep. He needs the rest to rebuild his strength. There’s a nurse sitting with him now.”

They walked to the darkened bay and Doctor Stapleton held the curtain aside for Sherlock to slip through before she followed. A young woman in maroon scrubs sat next to the bed reading a magazine. She smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, but he couldn’t bring himself to return the gesture.

John was sleeping, and although his eyebrows were slightly pulled together in consternation, he seemed otherwise peaceful. Between the IV tubing, nasal cannula, pulse-oximeter, and EKG wires, it seemed John was covered in medical pasta. Sweat clung to his forehead, and stubble shadowed his jaw. Soft white cuffs tethered his wrists to the bed. He looked as helpless as Sherlock felt.

Normal sleep schedules had never been part of Sherlock’s life, and it wasn’t rare for him to stay awake for days during a case. Physical exhaustion he could handle. Mental wasn’t even that bad. It was this emotional upheaval, of which he’d never seen the likes before, that left Sherlock feeling drained. The guilt and pain, which had nearly brought him to tears or rage before, only made him feel hollow and lost now.

Doctor Stapleton looked up at Sherlock with a sympathetic smile. “I can imagine you must be exhausted yourself. It’s been a harrowing night. Why don’t you lie down in the bed next to his? We can pull the curtains around both bays so you both have some quiet and you can keep him in sight. I’ll have Melissa stay to keep an eye out while you sleep.” The nurse nodded her agreement.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but she beat him to it. “Even if you’re not tired, it wouldn’t hurt to let your body rest a little, right?” She turned away, quietly getting to work arranging the second bay without waiting for his reply.

He grimaced at his protesting muscles as he settled onto the bed and allowed them to relax. He shifted to his side so he could watch John, focusing on the subtle rising and falling of his chest. Every inhale and exhale, every quiet beep of the heart monitor, was both comforting and terrifying. John was still alive, but each passing moment marked an inevitable countdown to a time when he wouldn’t be. How many more breaths would he breathe? How many heartbeats did he have left?

Sherlock was powerless. There was no puzzle he could solve, nothing his brilliance and deductions could fix. All he could do now was wait, trust in the experts Mycroft had assembled, and plead for mercy from the uncaring universe.

He’d never been so scared.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in the update! I don't plan on going that long between posts in the future, life just got a little crazy. Hoping to have this little tale wrapped up in another 4 or 5 chapters.
> 
> The absolutely incredible J_Baillier has been my savior with all this medical stuff these last few chapters! Her unending patience with my bizarrely specific questions at all hours of the day and night is beyond saintly, especially as she's busy writing and posting her own (absolute masterpieces of) fanfic (go check them out!)

Sherlock woke to a hand on his arm, shaking him gently. Melissa, the nurse who’d been sitting with John, smiled down at him apologetically. He blinked and sat up, trying to get his bearings. There were no windows to tell him if it was day or night. How long had he been sleeping?

“Sorry to wake you,” she whispered, “but he’s starting to come around. I’ve called Doctor Stapleton, she and the team are on their way.”

Sherlock stood and rubbed a hand over his face clearing the last traces of sleep from his mind. He crossed the short distance to stand near John’s head on the left side of the bed.

“He’s going to be a bit disoriented from the sedatives, and obviously the illness,” Melissa said as she looked at John’s monitors and jotted down notes on his chart. “He probably won’t make much sense, that’s normal. Don’t worry if he doesn’t recognize you or asks you the same questions over and over. He won’t remember any of it later.”

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip. John was stirring, trying to shift, frowning and whimpering when he couldn’t. He balled his hands and twisted his arms weakly in the restraints. His face was flushed and sweaty with fever.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s all right,” Sherlock soothed, dropping his hand to John’s arm and gently rubbing his thumb across John’s forearm to calm his movements. “I’m here, John. It’s okay.” His throat was tight around the words. None of this was _okay_.

John’s eyelids fluttered as he fought his way to consciousness. Sherlock could imagine John’s blue eyes so clearly, pleading with Sherlock to help him, horrified at the perceived betrayal. Would John would be terrified of Sherlock, still convinced that he was working with the enemy?

The curtain was drawn back, revealing Doctor Stapleton and the rest of the doctors. Melissa moved to the panel behind the bed and turned the lights up.

Doctor Vargas skimmed John’s chart, then turned to Melissa. “The last dose of midazolam was an hour ago?”

The nurse nodded. “I tapered down the propofol and turned it off about twenty minutes ago.”

“John,” Doctor Hernandez said in a loud, clear voice as he leaned over the bed. “We need you to open your eyes for us, now. It’s time to wake up.”

John moaned. Sherlock watched as his heart rate increased on the monitor.

“Come on, John,” the doctor chided, “open your eyes for us.”

Slowly, John opened his eyes in a wince, blinking as he tried to focus, squinting at the ambient light.

“There we go,” Doctor Hernandez praised. He smiled down at John as he spoke, gentle and non-threatening. “John, I’m Doctor Hernandez. You’re in hospital. You’re a bit sick but we’re working to fix that. How are you feeling?”

John looked around in drowsy confusion at the people surrounding him. He swallowed, then grimaced and tried to bring his hand up to his forehead, perplexed when he looked down to see why he couldn’t.

Doctor Hernandez distracted him quickly, “Does your head hurt?”

John nodded weakly, squeezing his eyes closed. He pushed his head back into the pillow as if to channel the pain. “Light,” he moaned, and Doctor Hernandez motioned for Melissa to dim them again.

“Okay, keep your eyes open for me, John. Can you tell me what else hurts?”

John frowned and breathed hard through his nose. “Everything,” he mumbled.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

Sherlock couldn’t tell if John’s brow furrowed in pain or concentration, then realized it was probably both.

“J … John … son … Watson? John Watson,” he slurred, then bit his lip in frustration. “I … I dunno … Where’s Sherlock? He knows.”

“I’m right here, John,” Sherlock said gently, squeezing John’s forearm. John turned at the sound, and his eyes finally met Sherlock’s. They were dim and unfocused with confusion and fever, but the heartbroken betrayal from the forest was gone.  

As the examination continued, Sherlock understood why. John no longer seemed to think he was caught in Moriarty’s web, probably because he had no recollection of anything since days ago at Baker Street. Everything about him was in slow motion. Even blinking was lethargic and laborious. His heart rate, however, had been increasing slowly since before he woke, and his rate of respiration was elevated as well, although it was hard to measure, since John kept alternating between panting through the pain and holding his breath against it.

While the doctors poked and prodded, John grew increasingly agitated as the dregs of the sedatives cleared from his mind. When Doctor Stapleton clicked on a penlight to check John’s pupils, he whined and shut his eyes, pulling his head away from her.

“Hurts,” he groaned, trying to sit up, once again held fast by the soft cuffs around his wrists. He let out a grunt of frustration and yanked at the restraints again. “Why am I …?” he paused trying to form the thought. “I want my hands.”

“Just relax, John,” Doctor Stapleton said softly. “I’ll put the light away, okay?”

“But I … I don’t like this,” John whimpered, and continued trying to pull his hands free, but his efforts were weak. As sick as John was, Sherlock doubted he would be able to stand on his own, let alone hurt anyone. But the damage he was doing to himself in panic was a real concern. His pulse and rate of respiration were climbing sharply.

Sherlock addressed the team of doctors across the bed. “The restraints are doing more harm than good at this point, can’t we remove them? He can barely lift his head, let alone leave the bed.”

Doctor Vargas nodded. “Yes, but we’ll calm him down first. We want to make sure he’s not going to pull out his IVs or foley cath.” He grimaced. “That’s never a pretty sight,” he mumbled under his breath, then turned to Melissa. “Let’s go back to the propofol infusion, but start slowly without an initial bolus. We want him calm, not asleep. We can swap to dexmedetomidine later, once we get that tachycardia under control.”

Doctor Stapleton put her hand on John’s right arm above the cuff. “Okay John, we’ll get them off for you in a moment. Let’s just take a few deep breaths first, all right?”

John ignored her and looked up at Sherlock, anxiety spread across his features. He looked so young and vulnerable. “I want to go home." 

Sherlock fought to keep his emotions in check, to stay calm and reassuring. Home seemed a world away right now, and Sherlock would give anything to be back in the comfort and safety of the flat. To rewind this whole mess to when Henry Knight had walked through their door and turn down his case. To stay bored, craving cigarettes, with John reading by the fireplace.

The idea of returning to Baker Street alone hit him like a tonne of bricks. John’s chair, cold and empty, waiting forever for someone who was never coming back. Sherlock knew he’d be waiting for the same.

What would he tell Mrs Hudson?

“I know John, I want to go home, too. As soon as you’re better we’ll head straight there, I promise.” Melissa was working with John's IV, replacing the infuser syringe and preparing to restart the sedative. John started to turn his head toward her.

“John, look at me,” Sherlock instructed gently, cupping John’s cheek and guiding his gaze away, forcing eye contact. He placed his other hand in John’s and squeezed gently. “You know I’d never let anyone hurt you. You’re safe, everyone here is just trying to help you get well.”

Against Sherlock’s hand, John nodded apprehensively, “don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere. But I need you to relax. Take a deep breath with me, okay?” John nodded again and Sherlock inhaled in an exaggerated manner. John shuddered as he fought to slow his own breathing in time with Sherlock’s. Behind him, Doctor Vargas put a hand out to stop Melissa as she reached for the IV tubing to raise the infusion rate of the propofol.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John’s as they breathed together, and praised him for the effort. The beeping monitors slowed to a normal pace as John relaxed, the rest of the room’s occupants silent.

Behind him, Sherlock could hear Doctor Stapleton slowly unbuckling John’s hand from the restraint on her side of the bed. John didn’t seem to notice.

“Well done, John.” Sherlock smiled and guided John’s heavy head back to his pillow, then unbuckled his other wrist.

The rest of the exam went smoothly. John couldn’t answer many of the doctor’s questions beyond grunting in the affirmative or negative with an occasional broken sentence thrown in, and he started to doze off in the middle of many of them. Doctor Vargas did decide to restart the propofol drip to keep John from getting agitated again as he gradually grew tired of the poking and prodding, but the calming effect Sherlock had had allowed the drip rate to be much more conservative. It was agreed that as long as someone stayed with him at all times, the restraints would remain off.

Soon, John no longer seemed to be bothered by anything that was being done: the thermometer swiped across his forehead, the stethoscope against his ribs, the blood drawn from his right arm. Although now unencumbered by the restraints, John had yet to lift either hand to test the freedom he insisted on, but did squeeze Sherlock’s unconsciously a few times.

Eventually the specialists cleared out and Doctor Stapleton and Sherlock were left alone with John, who had fallen into a fitful sleep. They stood silently for a moment, Sherlock watching John, and Doctor Stapleton watching Sherlock.  

When he could take the weight of her gaze no longer, he looked up and met her eyes.

“The way you calmed him down was amazing,” she said quietly. “I can tell you’re close, the way he trusts you. The other doctors saw it too.”

Sherlock felt his stomach twist. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, to tell her he hardly deserved such trust from John, and that John would still be safe and healthy instead of at death’s door if not for him.

Sensing his tension, Doctor Stapleton filled the silence. “We should have the blood test results soon, to assess if the DRACO is having any effect. We can decide if he’ll need another dose or if we need to explore other options.” Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded once. His eyes traced the length of the IVs and cords and machines attached to his frail friend, reading the jagged ECG curves, occasionally blinking blood pressure readings, and other fluctuating numbers on the monitors.

“The Detective Inspector was having a quick rest and a shower, but should be back soon to relieve you if you’d like to do the same. We have some private quarters in the barracks you can use.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I promised John I wouldn’t leave.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Of course. If you need anything, the afternoon shift just started; Mischa and Angela will be Doctor Watson’s nurses, and the rest of us are right down the hall.” She turned to leave, then paused and looked back over her shoulder. “He’s lucky to have you here, Mr Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade returned shortly after, clean-shaven and in fresh clothes.

“I know you’d probably say you’re not hungry, but I remembered how you polished off a whole bag of these when you found them in my desk drawer during the Baldwin case, so I know for a fact you like them.” He handed Sherlock a packet of chocolate-orange biscuits and a bottle of water and pulled up a chair to sit beside him. Sherlock drank the water, but couldn’t quite stomach the thought of touching the biscuits. Still, he acknowledged Lestrade’s sentiment with a courteous but joyless smile.

“Any word from Mycroft?” he asked reluctantly.

“Yeah, he’s set up a sort of command center in one of the General’s offices so he can stay here instead of heading back to London, but he has a few international conference calls he needs to be on. He’ll check in as soon as he’s able. How’s John? What did the doctors say?”

“He’s delirious with fever and the sedatives they have him on, but he’s not frightened anymore, just confused. They’re trying to manage his symptoms with medication, but the anticipated stages of the infection are still progressing on schedule. They’re waiting on blood tests to determine if the antiviral is working, or if we ‘need to examine other options.’”

“Like what?”

Sherlock shrugged. He hadn’t wanted to ask, afraid of the answer. Afraid that he’d call Doctor Stapleton’s bluff and find out there were no other ideas if the treatment touted as John’s best chance failed to cure him.

Heavy silence settled between them.

 

* * *

 

John drifted in and out of consciousness all afternoon. Even when awake, periods of lucid thought were rare. John mostly used them to check that Sherlock was still there and listlessly ask for water, then was asleep again just as quickly. The times when he would awake hallucinating were much more common.

“We’re going to be late,” John lamented at one point, weakly lifting his head to address no one in particular.

Sherlock had initially tried to reassure John immediately when he woke that whatever he was imagining wasn’t true, that he was sick and in hospital and should rest. But the denial of his imagined reality only frustrated John instead of calming him, and Sherlock and Lestrade learned it was sometimes better to play along and find a different way out.

He kept his tone relaxed and natural. “Where are we going?”

“To work at the paper factory. I got more jelly, we can do his pens this time.”

Sherlock reacted the nonsense as if he understood it completely. “But John, don’t you remember? We have the day off today.”

“What?”

“It’s right here on the calendar. ‘No work today.’ You must have forgotten, but that’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

John blinked a few times then nodded, closed his eyes, and lay his head back on the pillow, snoring again in seconds.

The day was full of vignettes like these, repeated over and over with varying hallucinations. John insisted he needed a towel before he could go anywhere, moaned about a Christmas pageant, and even accused Sherlock of being a dragon. Each time, Sherlock gently joined the storyline and reshaped it, guiding John back to unconsciousness.

“You know, it’s a shame he probably won’t remember any of this,” Lestrade chuckled after John sat up, looked Lestrade straight in the eye, and gravely informed him, “there are dinosaurs on the spaceship.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and his expression was nothing short of incredulous horror.

Lestrade sighed and pushed himself up from the slouch he’d fallen into. “Come on, Sherlock, you know what I mean. I think he’d get a laugh out of it is all. I’m not suggesting the situation is anything other than bloody awful, and it’s a good thing he won’t remember.”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, and covered his eyes with his hand. “And I’ll never forget.”

 

* * *

  

Doctor Stapleton and the virologist, Doctor Lewis, returned to report that, although the viral load had dipped significantly after the initial DRACO infusion, it seemed to be rebuilding strength again, so they were going to give John another dose.

At half four, a dozing Lestrade was jolted awake when his phone started vibrating in his pocket; he stepped out to take a call from Donovan.

One of the new nurses, Angela, did a brief survey of John’s neurology around 5. He barely opened his eyes, and mumbled answers to the few questions she had for him.

“I know it’s exhausting sitting vigil all day,” she said to Sherlock as she made notes in John’s chart. “Have you eaten? I can get you something, if you’d like to have dinner?”

Before Sherlock could answer, John opened his eyes and huffed angrily from the bed. He scowled, blinking sluggishly into the middle distance. When he spoke, it came out in a surprisingly coherent sneer. “He doesn’t want your _dinner!_ He only eats with _me.”_

Angela looked to Sherlock, who shook his head in confusion. He stood and leaned over John, trying to figure out what had riled him so much, and make sense of his angry words.

“John, are you … hungry?”

“No,” he mumbled as his eyes dropped shut. “I just don’t like her.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped a bit in surprise, and he looked to Angela to gauge her reaction. “Don’t worry,” she chuckled and shook her head, turning to leave. “I don’t take it personally. I’ll see if we can get something from the canteen brought up for you.”

Sherlock bit back the refusal he’d been preparing, finding it easier to nod instead. After John had just insulted her for her kindness, it seemed wrong to decline and make it all for naught.

A few minutes later, quiet laughter erupted from the other side of the ward. Angela and the other nurse, Mischa, had been talking softly, but were now trying to contain their giggles over something one of them had said. Angela exhaled the last of her laughter in a sigh, shaking her head at her colleague and smiling.

John grunted again in irritation and sat forward, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He scowled and muttered under his breath, “You’re dead. Stop texting him. _Ridiculous_.”

Sherlock leaned closer to John, trying to make eye contact, but John’s eyes were unseeing with fever. He tried to formulate a way to guide John out of this illusion, but something about what he’d said made Sherlock apprehensive.

“John?” Sherlock said, placing his hand on John’s shoulder and leaning down into his field of view. “Who are you talking to?”

“He’s married to his _work_ ,” John huffed petulantly, then his face crumpled to sadness, and he mumbled, “well … that’s what he told _me_.”

“Who are you talking to, John?”

John glowered. “The … The _Woman_ ,” he spat, disgusted. “Leave him alone, _Woman._ He’s _mine.”_

Sherlock felt his jaw drop as the pieces came together. Angela’s offer; _“I can get you something, if you’d like to_ **_have dinner?_** _”_ Her exhaled laugh … John must have thought it was the custom ringtone that had been recorded on Sherlock’s phone.

John thought he was talking to Irene Adler.

And he was jealous.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my team of betas! hotshoeagain, jbaillier, and thats-for-me-to-know are absolute rockstars. And thanks to Ariane Devere for her transcripts of ASiB (found here: https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/18507.html)

John Watson was jealous of Irene Adler.

Sherlock gaped at John, whose eyes were already moving behind his closed eyelids as though he’d dipped into REM sleep, although he was still frowning. Unable to process much more than the feeling of shock, Sherlock realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut, then sat down heavily in his chair next to the bed. He blinked and looked around the ward, wondering if anyone else had heard what John had said, wanting a witness to make sure John was the only one hallucinating.

But of course that’s all it was. John was ill with a mind-altering virus, battling a fever, and pumped full of sedatives. Sherlock couldn’t possibly give any weight to the things John was saying. He had been delirious in some state or another for over 36 hours now, and the last handful had been especially disconnected from reality.

John couldn’t possibly be interested in Sherlock romantically. After all, Sherlock had been there, standing in the shadows at Battersea, while John and Irene discussed him.

_“Are you jealous?”_

_“We’re not a couple.”_

_“Yes you are.”_

Sherlock had strained to hear, listening for John’s rebuttal, but John had been silent.

_“Who … who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but -- for the record -- if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”_

_“Well, I am. Look at us both.”_

And that was the crux of it. John had said it plain as day: _“I’m not actually gay.”_ And it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had heard John deny they were anything more than friends and flatmates to people who assumed more. Regardless of signs which Sherlock wanted to believe proved John felt something stronger than friendship between them, hearing John deny it threw water on those hopeful fires.

Maybe he was misreading John’s words, since recognizing the intricacies of human emotion had never been a strong point for him. He could connect emotions to motives, but couldn’t always spot the feelings in the first place, especially when they were directed at him. In fact, one of the ways John often contributed on cases was pointing out things like body language and social cues Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He’d often alerted Sherlock to the fact that people often meant more than they actually spoke aloud. On several cases, that had meant that Sherlock avoided a bloody nose or black eye from someone he’d been pushing too hard, be it a suspect, a victim, or a law enforcement officer.

 _“He doesn’t want your_ dinner! _He only eats with_ me _._

 _“Leave him alone,_ Woman _. He’s_ mine _.”_

If only John were awake and aware and able to clarify what he meant for Sherlock now! Although, more likely, he’d just deny it all as feverish nonsense. John wasn’t gay, so it obviously couldn’t be jealousy of a romantic sort.

In contrast, Irene had told John that she _was_ gay. John had insinuated he knew Sherlock was too, so why would he possibly think that there was something romantic between them? Maybe John thought Irene was a threat to his friendship with Sherlock?

Sherlock wouldn’t deny he had enjoyed playing Irene’s game. She was an enigma, and it was rare for Sherlock to be challenged by a person who was so genuinely puzzling. It was frustrating and fascinating, and she was just as captivated by him as he was by her. It felt like an elaborate private dance, as they pulled close in a charged embrace before spinning away from each other, only to be drawn back in again to a secret song that only they could hear. It was charged in a way that might seem sexual to an observer, but a platonic affair was all that it had been; a tango of intellect and cunning. There was the allure of a worthy adversary for two people who had few options to quench their thirst for a challenging spar. In the end, Sherlock had emerged the victor, handing Irene’s unlocked phone over to Mycroft. He’d been unable to feel sympathy at sealing her fate, still reeling from the dirty way she’d tried to prey on his emotions.

 _“Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side,”_ he’d admonished her (and reminded himself). But in the end, it was sentiment that brought him to Karachi to save her from being beheaded. She deserved his respect, if not his love.

More of John’s fevered words came back to Sherlock, then. _“You’re dead. Stop texting him._ Ridiculous _.”_

John had been the one to tell him Irene Adler was in witness protection in America. Even though Sherlock knew otherwise, John had come up with files from Mycroft to report the news. He had known John was lying -- John was an awful liar on a good day -- but hadn’t stopped to really think about _why_. Had Mycroft instructed John to deceive him? Or was John trying to protect Sherlock from the truth to spare his feelings?

 _“You won’t be able to see her again,”_ he’d said in his best attempt at nonchalance, then followed it up by asking if Irene had texted Sherlock again. 

If nothing else, John proved that at some level he felt possessive of Sherlock. Did people normally get so overprotective about their … friends? John had counted the messages Irene had sent him. Surely that was not…. normal?

 _Like secretly booking a third ticket to tag along on their dates?_ John’s voice rung out so clearly in his head that, for a moment, Sherlock thought he’d spoken aloud, but John was still asleep, completely unaware of Sherlock’s internal debate.

Surely that wasn’t the same, Sherlock tried to reason with mind-John. There was Sarah, who John was actively slotting in the way, coming between them even during a case. Sherlock had only tagged along to the Yellow Dragon Circus because the information he could glean from there was important. He’d persuaded John to change his plans with Sarah to see the show for the sake of the investigation. John wanted to go on a date with Sarah and Sherlock needed to do some fact-finding with John. It just made sense. What was the harm in killing two birds with one stone?

Except for the unfortunate situation with the mistaken identity and the Black Lotus Tong, obviously. The weight of the memory settled over Sherlock in a way it never had before. Another situation where John had been placed directly in harm’s way because of Sherlock’s machinations.

And, it didn’t stop at Chinese assassins. Sherlock hadn’t even been aware of his own feelings toward John until they were conjured up by semtex and sniper sights, but Moriarty had known.

 _“I will burn the heart out of you,”_ he’d promised Sherlock, as John, both the embodiment of Sherlock’s heart and the reason he now knew he had one, stood covered in explosives, waiting to go up in flames mere feet away. Ready to die to save Sherlock.

Having assured his heart was hardened sufficiently against sentiment, Sherlock had spent his life building a suit of armor around his mind. How was John Sherlock’s greatest asset while also becoming his biggest vulnerability? How was that fair to John, to be a target because of his association with Sherlock?

_“Mister Archer, on the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.”_

Time and time again he’d put John in harm's way, fooling himself each time they escaped more or less unscathed that nothing bad could _really_ happen to John. Allowing the invincible feeling from a post-case high to overwhelm him and blocking out thoughts of the unhappy ending that had never unfolded.

Until now.

On the bed before him, John whimpered, tensing in pain.

“John? It’s all right, I’m here,” Sherlock said, standing and placing a hand on John’s arm.

“My neck,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

Sherlock turned toward the nurses station but Mischa was already walking toward them.

“He says his neck hurts,” Sherlock said, looking back at John. Glancing up at the monitors, he saw John’s temperature had risen to 40.5º. Mischa was frowning at the same.

“John,” she said, leaning over him. “John can you open your eyes for me?”

He groaned and kept his eyes squeezed shut.

“Your neck hurts? Can you tell me how?”

“Stiff,” he choked out. “And my head …” he moaned, unable to finish the sentence.

“I’ll call for Doctor Stapleton and Doctor Hernandez,” she said to Sherlock as she turned to walk back to the desk.

Sherlock laid his hand on John’s shoulder. “The doctors are on their way, John. It’s going to be okay.” He swallowed, trying to ignore how hollow the reassurance felt.

That’s when John began to seize.

The monitors erupted in alarm as John went rigid under Sherlock’s hand; his back arched, his head and neck stretched back, forced into the pillow. Violent spasms wracked his body. A thick line of crimson ran from his right nostril.

Sherlock spun in panic in time to see Mischa yelling into the phone before slamming it back on the cradle. The ward doors opened and Angela ran in, followed by Mycroft and Lestrade, the latter carrying a cafeteria-style dinner tray that he quickly discarded on an empty bed.

Mischa and Angela took positions on either side of the bed, and Sherlock moved back to give them space. They laid the head of the bed flat, and checked his IVs and lines to make sure they wouldn't be caught or kinked as John thrashed.

Doctor Stapleton and the entire team of specialists arrived quickly, as well as a handful of extra nurses, but all they could do was wait for the seizing to end. Minutes passed. Nothing changed. Tremors continued to course through John, his body taut, muscles straining as they spasmed. His nose continued to bleed slowly but steadily.The three doses of intravenous benzodiazepine they'd administered seemed to be doing nothing.

“It’s been seven minutes so he is, by current definition, in status epilepticus,” Doctor Hernandez announced to the team after a time check. “We need to put him under, and secure his airway, then start continuous EEG monitoring. Let’s get a cooling system in here to bring down this fever, too. Based on the illness, I’m recommending we induce a barbiturate coma to stop the seizure. Doctor Vargas?”

Doctor Vargas nodded. “Let’s get him started on a midazolam infusion and sodium pentothal--”

Doctor Dalal turned to him, alarmed. “With the arrythmias and increasing hemodynamic instability we’ve already seen, we need an arterial line as well.”

Before Sherlock could react, a gentle but firm hand settled on his upper arm. One of the nurses, Angela. “Mister Holmes, I have to ask you to step outside for a bit while we get Doctor Watson stabilized.”

Anger flared through Sherlock at the thought. He promised John he wouldn’t leave, and couldn’t fathom abandoning him now in such a vulnerable state. “Absolutely not, I’m staying. I’ll keep out of the way --”

“It’s not an easy thing to watch, and it’s best for the doctors to not have any distractions while they work. We’ll come and get you as soon as he’s settled.”

Behind her John continued to seize as the doctors argued. Sherlock had lost track of what was being debated.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sir, please don’t make me call for the guards to remove you,” she said firmly, looking genuinely remorseful for the threat.

“That won’t be necessary.” A gentle hand grasped his elbow.

_Mycroft._

Sherlock looked to him, overwhelmed and angry, unable to pretend otherwise. Mycroft’s stoic countenance was betrayed by the concern in his eyes.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade agreed, stepping to Sherlock’s other side and placing a hand on his back. “The more time they spend arguing with us, the less they can spend helping John. Let’s take a walk.”

 

* * *

  

They settled in a quiet, empty corner of the canteen, at an industrial metal table with four stools bolted to its base. Sherlock sat down heavily and leaned forward on his elbows, his face buried in his hands. Mycroft took the seat across from him. Lestrade returned from the vending machines, handed Mycroft a paper cup with tea, placed another in front of Sherlock, then took a sip of his with a wince. “It’s not great, but it’s warm,” he said apologetically, and sat between Sherlock and Mycroft.

Tense, tired silence hung around them. Finally, Mycroft spoke.

“Mislaid feelings of guilt won’t help Doctor Watson, Sherlock,” he stated gently. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes a dark, raging tempest.

“They’re not mislaid, Mycroft,” Sherlock spoke, voice dripping with acid. “I’ve earned every iota of blame for what is happening to him.”

Mycroft sighed. “During tragedy people find an unhealthy … comfort at turning anger inward, placing responsibility for actions out of their control back on their own shoulders. It convinces us, quite falsely, that we had power in situations where we didn’t. It’s easier to pretend you made a wrong decision than to accept that the universe is random and cruel and we have no chance at influencing it otherwise.”

“Except _I_ trapped him in the bloody lab where he came into contact with this godforsaken virus,” Sherlock spat. “I used John to satisfy my own curiosities without thinking about the effects it could have on him. I waved away the dangers because I had recovered after being exposed to the gas, so I assumed he would as well. I was careless.”

Lestrade cut in. “Sherlock, you didn’t know there was a virus the gas. You didn’t even know it was the gas that was causing problems to begin with. And, in the end, you were the one who helped us find him. He’d still be out in the woods—”

“When they were pursuing him _two days_ ago, I fought Major Barrymore when he suggested we tranquilize John to retrieve him quickly. I believed I could get him to come with me peacefully, and instead, he spent another _12 hours_ in that miserable forest and in the end they had to sedate him anyway. He could have started treatments back at stage two, instead of clinging to life on the edge of stage four.”

Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a glance, and Lestrade cleared his throat. “Kitchen’s closing in a few. We ran into one of John’s nurses, she was bringing you dinner before John …” he trailed off and took a breath, then stood. “I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten, and knowing you, I’m sure it’s been a few days. I’ll go see what they can rustle up.”

Mycroft watched him go, then looked at Sherlock, who was staring at the table, radiating self-hatred.

“I’m truly sorry that this has happened to Doctor Watson, Sherlock. I know how much you care for him, and he for you.”

“That’s awfully sentimental coming from you,” Sherlock mumbled half-heartedly.

“Yes, well. I may have rethought my initial feelings on the subject of late,” Mycroft admitted, eyes unconsciously flicking toward the kitchen before dropping back down to the table.

Sherlock gaped incredulously, wondering how on Earth he'd missed something so monumental, but Mycroft cut him off before he could speak. “Not a word. That’s not what we’re here to discuss.”

Momentary diversion quickly forgotten, Sherlock’s expression turned somber again. He resumed his study of the table, and Mycroft barely heard him when he mumbled, “He would have been better off staying in his bedsit.”   

“Doctor Watson is a grown man capable of making his own decisions, Sherlock. He knows the risks involved in following you on these expeditions, and he accepts them without a second thought. Revels in them, in fact. I’ll admit you made a grave error in using him as a test subject, but you didn't drag him here against his will.”

Sherlock huffed cynically.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “When I met Doctor Watson for the first time, I found a man barely clinging to civilian life, longing to return to the battlefield. I doubt the benefit of your acquaintance is lost on him.”

“Benefit?" Sherlock whispered, blinking back angry tears. "He’s dying, it's my fault, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” 

“You did what you could, coming to me. I can’t recall the last time you called on me for a favor, even though there were many times you may have needed one. You put aside our petty differences and your pride for Doctor Watson’s sake. I’ve done my best to ensure he has the best medical team, and therefore the best chance at a positive outcome. Unfortunately, all we can do now is wait.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded once, swiping at his eyes.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently, waiting until his brother finally lifted his eyes to continue. “Doctor Watson is a fighter. He is young and healthy, giving him a very good chance of beating this, and the best way for you to help him right now is to have hope and not get lost in your own head.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Mycroft didn’t leave. They sat in silence and waited for news.


	11. Chapter 11

The mess hall cuisine Lestrade procured for Sherlock went untouched and had congealed by the time they were summoned. The rest of John’s medical team was already assembled in the conference room.

Mycroft allowed Sherlock the chair at the foot of the table while he took a seat opposite Lestrade. Mycroft was the highest ranking person on the entire base, and if nothing else, he was Sherlock’s elder brother. His deferral of the predominant seat to Sherlock felt patronizing and alien and full of implications Sherlock didn’t think he deserved.  

At this point, Sherlock would have been happier for Mycroft to lead the discussion. He couldn’t tolerate the doctors' attention focused on him right now, and resisted the urge to slouch in the chair waiting for the meeting to end.

Sherlock had protested the detour; needing to be back at John’s side. He was still angry he’d been forced to leave in the first place. The knowledge that John was helpless and alone right now made Sherlock feel nauseous.

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but part of him didn’t even want an update. He could see perfectly well the condition John was in. What good would it do to waste time by sitting in a meeting reiterating the inevitable?

“Let’s start with the good news,” Doctor Stapleton began, hands clasped on the table before her. Sherlock’s head snapped up in surprise. How was it possible there could be any good news?

“The DRACO seems to be having a significant impact on the virus,” she said, smiling when she made eye contact with Sherlock. “Doctor Watson’s two most recent blood tests have shown a drop in the viral load, with the latter results returning a decrease of almost 25%. That’s incredibly significant, and something Doctor Frankland was never able to achieve with the antivirals he experimented with.”

Sherlock blinked and shook his head. He wanted to believe the positive report but it just didn’t seem possible. “I don’t understand. What we just witnessed an hour ago seems to contradict what you’re saying. He’s only getting worse.”

Doctor Hernandez nodded in acknowledgement of Sherlock’s question. “The seizure Doctor Watson experienced is referred to as _convulsive status epilepticus_. Viral central nervous system infections often manifest as encephalitis – inflammation of the brain - whereas bacterial infections are more famed for causing meningitis, meaning inflammation of the protective layers covering the brain. This virus variant has the ability to do both. We have managed to partly eradicate it from Doctor Watson’s brain tissue, but there is still a significant component of the illness active in the meninges. A stiff neck and headache are common features of that, and convulsions are not uncommon. This development is understandably distressing to observe, but Doctor Frankland’s notes did recall such a progression.

“We’ve placed Doctor Watson in a medically induced coma to stop the seizing, and we’re using continuous EEG to monitor his brain function for any further irregularities. We’re also treating him with high-dose corticosteroid to decrease the inflammation, and a gel cooling system to manage the fever. And we’ve switched from timed dosages of the DRACO to a constant infusion now.”

Mycroft lifted his chin, brow furrowed. “If he’s improving, why was the epileptic fit so severe?”

“That’s the bad news,” Doctor Stapleton said with a sigh. “Doctor Watson’s body is starting to beat the virus, but it’s been an arduous fight so far, and that has taken a toll on many of his systems.”

Doctor Lewis, the virologist, expanded where Doctor Stapleton left off. “Viruses sometimes gather in certain organs even as they leave others. Even if the virus is not infecting his brain tissue that actively any more, his overall condition is putting a huge strain on his nervous system. The initial fight affected him in ways his body has never experienced before. Human beings aren’t made to sustain that level of exertion, and in situations like this, gradually grow weaker until they can no longer function at all. Right now, it’s a race between the antiviral and the virus, and we can only hope that he can withstand the battle between the two. We are optimistic that the constant infusion will provide the boost Doctor Watson needs to send the virus into final remission, and that it happens before any of his organ systems truly begin to fail.”

Sherlock swallowed back the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. “Will he … will there be brain damage?”

Doctor Hernandez shook his head. “So far, we have no evidence of any permanent brain damage. We were able to stop the seizure, and what we’ve seen on the EEG since then only indicates normal brain activity for this level of sedation.”

“We’re more concerned with his heart,” Doctor Dalal, the cardiologist added. “When we did our initial assessment of Doctor Watson, he presented with sporadic arrhythmias. We’ve seen an increase in those arrhythmias since then, which is consistent with Doctor Frankland’s findings. It seems the virus is affecting the heart muscle, and unfortunately the level of sedation required to stop the seizures risks additional cardiac strain by diminishing the contractility of the heart muscle.”

So they’d had to choose to risk breaking John’s heart to save his mind.

If they stopped the sedation and the seizures began again, John might live, but there would be a risk of brain damage. Sherlock’s mind ran through the catalog of possible outcomes. Even the mildest forms of brain damage still resulted in memory problems, issues with motor function and coordination, executive function disorders, and personality changes. Sherlock stopped himself before he began to list the symptoms of anything more severe. John unable to practice medicine, or join him on cases, or speak, or care for himself in the most basic ways, or even regain consciousness at all … it was too horrifying to imagine.

But would a living John in a compromised mental state be better than a dead John who died with his mind intact? The selfish part of Sherlock vowed he’d care for John no matter what the outcome, pleading with the universe to spare his life. This was all Sherlock’s fault, and if he had to spend the rest of his life in atonement caring for John, he would. But what would John want if he could decide for himself? Sherlock knew if the situation were reversed, he’d sooner die than live without all of his mental faculties.

The conversation before him continued, but Sherlock couldn’t keep up, lost in a maze of what-ifs. Life with John; life without John. Life if he could turn back time and erase this nightmare from existence.

The air in the conference room felt thick and hot. The intense stares from the doctors seated around him were unbearable. Sherlock’s stomach was in knots and he felt like he was suffocating. He could take no more. This wasn’t where he needed to be right now.

He stood quickly, pushing his chair back and turning toward the door. He paused to look over his shoulder, meeting Mycroft’s surprised eyes, aware of the sudden silence that had overcome the room. “I trust you’ll fill me in later,” he muttered, then strode out the door, heading back to John.

 

* * *

 

He’d practically charged down the hall and back into the medical ward, but stopped short when his eyes landed on the only patient there. Sherlock stood stunned, taking in all the changes; John had already been swimming in tubes and wires before the seizure, but now he was nearly lost beneath them. Small adhesive patches attached wires to John’s head and an intubation tube disappeared into his mouth. A nasogastric tube ran into one nostril and a temperature electrode into the other.

As still and quiet as John seemed, there was movement and sound all around him. Medication dripped through IV tubing, dosed by automatic infusors. The ventilator hissed, making John’s chest to rise and fall with each forced breath. Sherlock reasoned that an armchair-sized machine with a camera, which was a new addition beside the bed, must be the continuous EEG workstation.

“I know it’s scary to see him like this,” Lieutenant Carlton said gently. Sherlock hadn’t heard him approach. The last time Sherlock had seen him had been when they were searching for John after escaping the supply closet two days before.

“I can tell you what each one is for, if you like,” he offered, and Sherlock found he could only nod.    

“Some of these were there before, and I’m sure you know a fair deal about medicine. If you’d like me to skip anything you’re already familiar with, just say the word.”

Sherlock swallowed and hummed in agreement.

Lieutenant Carlton took a deep breath and began again. “The IVs in his arms are delivering his medications, and a central line was installed since there are so many of them in use right now, plus some of the electrolyte concentrates irritate smaller veins too much. The clip on his finger is a pulse-oximeter, helps us keep track of how much oxygen is in his blood. The EKG allows us to monitor cardiac activity. Since he’s been having arrhythmias and his blood pressure has been fluctuating, we installed an arterial line that will allow continuous blood pressure measurements. It will also make him more comfortable since it can be used to take blood samples quickly and painlessly.

“Since we had to sedate him deeply to stop the seizure, he couldn’t breathe on his own, so we had to secure his airway by intubating him. When the doctors deem it safe to lower the infusion rates of the sedatives and he’s ready to start breathing on his own again, the respirator will help him with that and make sure he gets enough oxygen. Right now, it’s doing all the work for him. The electrodes on his head are for the EEG. In his nose he has an NG tube for nutrients, and a thermometer to monitor his temperature, which has already started come down a bit from where it was an hour ago.”

“Can he feel any of it?” Sherlock asked after they stood quietly for a moment. It was hard to remember that John was supposedly getting better after a thorough inventory of all the machines keeping him alive.

“He’s not in any pain,” Lieutenant Carlton assured him. “He might be aware of some things, but we’re aiming for a sedation level that imitates very deep sleep. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, so especially when we start bringing him round again, he’ll be confused. Having someone he knows close by will be very good for him. But he might well be able to hear you if you want to talk to him, and touch can be comforting too.” He hesitated then, seeming unsure if he’d overstepped a boundary by suggesting physical contact.

Sherlock didn’t notice the lieutenant’s doubt. He was too busy looking for a place that he could touch John without hurting him or interfering with a tube or wire. He stepped up to the bed, dropping his hand to John’s, lightly tracing his limp fingers where they rested at his side. Careful not to touch the IV running into the back of John’s hand, Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s, feeling his heart lurch in his chest as the contact solidified the reality of the situation.

“Let me know if I can get anything for you,” Lieutenant Carlton said, pushing a chair behind Sherlock so he could sit closer to the bed. Before he left, he pulled the curtain around the bay, giving Sherlock and John privacy from the nurses station and anyone who might walk into the unit.

Sherlock sat slowly, and after a moment leaned forward to lay his head on the bed next to John’s arm. He felt both hollow and heavy, overcome with emotions yet somehow numb. Without thinking, he started counting the beeps of the cardiac monitor, and the rhythmic translation of John’s heartbeat lulled him into a fitful sleep.

 

* * *

 

The images first came to Sherlock in flashes and fog. John, trapped in the animal lab, behind the airlock. He stood staring at Sherlock through the small glass window on the metal door, his face blank except for eyes filled with pain and betrayal. The air around John began to fill with fog. Sherlock ran to open the door, but there was no handle or knob, just smooth metal. He tried to force his fingers into the crack between the door and the jamb, but the space was too small. He looked around desperately for a solution; a tool to pry open the door, a valve he could use to shut off the mist, but there was nothing. The lab was full of empty, mangled cages.

“Why did you lock me in here, Sherlock?” John asked in a robotic monotone. “I can’t breathe. Please let me out.”

Sherlock turned back to the lab again. The cages were gone. In their place stood the monsters that had occupied them. Huge black hounds, red glowing eyes, teeth exposed in vicious snarls, growling and drooling and advancing on Sherlock. His back hit the airlock. Fog was pouring out from the cracks around the door now. The window was milky and opaque, the only thing visible through it John’s fingertips resting against the glass.

Suddenly, the dogs stopped and turned toward the lift. Major Barrymore stood there, assault rifle in his hands. The dogs parted and Barrymore strode forward, aiming the gun at the door, at the spot above John’s fingertips.

Aiming at John’s heart.

Sherlock lunged forward to stop the Major, but the dogs surrounded him, canine assassins guarding their master.

“It has to be done, it’s easier this way,” Barrymore snapped and took aim.

“Stop! He’s my friend!” Sherlock cried, and Barrymore sneered.

“You don’t have _friends_ ,” he said and his finger wrapped around the trigger as he leaned to look through the crosshairs.

Sherlock looked down at his hand, suddenly heavy with John’s pistol. Without hesitation, he shot Barrymore between the eyes. As he fell, Sherlock saw with horror that the Major didn’t have a gun after all. It was a key to the airlock door. Alarms started blaring, lights started flashing, the dogs began to advance.

Sherlock was startled awake by the piercing cry of John’s heart rate monitor. He jumped to his feet so quickly he almost knocked over his chair. Before he could call for help, Lieutenant Carlton ripped the curtain back and rushed in, followed quickly by four other nurses. They surrounded the bed, forcing Sherlock to release John’s hand as he was pushed out of the way.

“He’s in V-fib!”

They moved the head of the bed to lay it flat and pulled the hospital gown down to expose John’s chest.

Lieutenant Carlton clasped his hands together over John’s heart and locked his elbows. “Starting compressions - we need the crash cart!”

Sherlock couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His eyes were locked on John’s face as it rocked with each compression. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be part of the nightmare. He was still asleep. John Watson was not dying right in front of him. Sherlock just needed to wake up. He searched the room for some sign of absurdity, something to tell him it wasn’t real.

A nurse ripped open packets, and quickly adhered the large gel pads within to John’s chest; one under his right collar bone, the other on his left side, low on his ribs. Someone yelled “Charging to 150, shocking, stand clear!” and John’s chest jerked upward with a jolt of electricity. Lieutenant Carlton quickly resumed chest compressions.

Doctor Dalal and Doctor Stapleton dashed into the ward, Lestrade close behind. Sherlock saw him run up and skid to a stop, struggling to see what was happening behind the wall of medical professionals. They caught each other’s gaze across the room. The panic in Lestrade’s eyes felt like a mirror to Sherlock.

“Charging to 200! Stand clear!”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He wished he had a deity he could pray to because the utter helplessness he felt was staggering. John’s chest arced upward as another charge was sent through him, but his damned stubborn heart refused to comply.

“Pushing one milligram of adrenaline! And three hundred milligrams of amiodarone!”

“Resuming CPR!”

The world spun. Sherlock knew the nurses and doctors were moving at a rapid pace, but everything about John was in slow motion. His mouth, slack around the intubation tube, lips tinged with blue. His skin so pale it was almost grey. Heavy, dark eyelids over his kind, blue eyes. Would those eyes ever open again?

Nick stood above John, arms held straight as he thrust down on John’s chest over and over. Another voice counted the compressions.

John’s heart still stubbornly withheld its beats.

“That’s two minutes again,” the nurse assigned to making notes and keeping track of time announced.

“Rhythm’s still V-fib,” Doctor Dalal replied from her position next to the defibrillator. “Charging to 200! Clear!”

Sherlock’s own heart hammered in his ears as John’s chest lifted off the bed once more, and frantic, blinding desperation clawed through Sherlock, icy and unforgiving. The monitor continued to blare. The only thought he was capable of, a broken off plea to fate: _Please please please please please please please please._

CPR was continued, and second doses of the resuscitation drugs administered.

Sherlock felt something strangled and hysterical bubble out of him, a wounded whimper. Two nurses turned, realizing he was there, and tried to usher him away. Hands on his arms, moving him back from John. He jerked violently to dislodge them. People surrounded the gurney. He couldn’t see John’s face anymore, just his lifeless hand, fingertips resting on the bed, bouncing slightly with the force of each downward thrust on his chest.

“Please,” Sherlock choked out, blinking back tears. “He can’t— I can’t leave him, I— please—”

They were speaking to him now in low, sympathetic voices laced with urgency, hands gripping his biceps forcefully now. Trying to move him out of the area. He wasn’t in the way, they just didn’t want him to see. Didn’t want him to become emotional.

 _No,_ Sherlock thought, distantly, _I don’t get emotional._

He felt himself moving backward, too overwhelmed to resist. They let him go, back of his legs up against an unused bed.

“Clear!” John’s body arced again, just as the the curtain was whipped closed, separating them, cutting off Sherlock’s view of John.

The spell broken, Sherlock lunged forward to pull the curtain back, but a steady, normal beat from the monitor stopped him in his tracks. A wave of relief rushed over Sherlock so strongly, he had to reach back and steady himself on the bed. His chest released its vice-hold on his lungs and he took in a deep shaky breath, and blinked rapidly trying to clear his thoughts. He ran his violently trembling hands through his hair and listened to his own pulse crash in his ears with each beep of the monitor.

Lestrade approached, breathing heavily through the adrenaline which Sherlock now felt flooding through himself, too. The DI’s eyes were laden with worry. He briefly placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but no words passed between them.

There was nothing left to say.

 

* * *

 

“We planned for something like this,” Doctor Dalal admitted in a bizarre attempt at reassurance once the situation settled and extra staff cleared out. John’s heart beat on its own once more. He was alive. “Doctor Watson has been experiencing increasing ventricular extrasystoles, and ventricular fibrillation often results … the important thing is, he’s stable now.”

 _For how much longer? Will CPR and electric shocks fix him the next time?_ Sherlock had wanted to ask, but couldn’t, not willing to hear the answer. He blinked dazedly at a loose thread on the doctor’s white coat. Lestrade thanked her and ushered Sherlock back toward the bed, retrieving his chair from the corner it had been haphazardly pushed to.

Sherlock didn’t react when Mycroft pulled up a seat between him and Lestrade at John’s bedside soon after. John’s vitals were stable again, and aside from the tremors still running through Sherlock’s hands, it was almost as if the whole thing had never happened.

Long minutes passed before Sherlock finally broke the silence. “What about Harriet?” he managed, voice hoarse with emotion, struggling as the words caught in his throat. “And Mrs Hudson. They should be here … they should be able to say--” but he couldn’t bring himself to speak the last word. _Goodbye._

Mycroft sighed, sympathy repressing his exasperation. “Sherlock, you know that’s not possible. This is a top-secret military base. I can’t allow access to any more civilians, regardless of the circumstances.” Beside him, Lestrade bit his lip and rubbed the back of his neck, channeling his dismay, but said nothing.

Sherlock shook his head and swallowed, corners of his mouth pulled down in a sickened grimace as his eyes fell on John’s rising and falling chest. When he spoke, his voice was oddly hollow. “Of course. I should have known. It’ll all be cleaned up. What will you tell them? He died of the swine flu? Some sort of accident? What ending will you concoct to make sure no one asks questions?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to object, but when no valid argument presented itself, he closed it, dropped his eyes, and sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted regretfully, voice barely more than a whisper.

Sherlock felt anger bubble up inside of him. That John’s death would be swept under the rug, turned to a fiction, was unthinkable. No doubt Mycroft would absolve Sherlock of his sins in whatever narrative he constructed, when all Sherlock wanted was for people to hate him more than they already did. He wanted there to be no doubt he was a monster, a psychopath who carelessly gambled with the life of the person who meant the most to him, and lost.

He knew what Donovan already thought about him. _“One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”_ Donovan was right: in the bed before him lay the most tragic crime scene Sherlock had ever witnessed, and … he was the one responsible.

The world should know. Sherlock should be forced to wear his crime like a hair-shirt, paying an immeasurable penance until his own dying breath. Maybe fate would grant him mercy by not prolonging his misery. Maybe weakness would drive him to do it himself.

 _Better to have loved then lost, than never to have loved at all_ was wrong. Before John, Sherlock had no idea what he’d been missing. The closest he’d had to friendship was the role Lestrade had played since pulling Sherlock out of the gutters, helping him to get clean, and putting him to work. But real companionship had been an alien concept until John Watson.

He wished he could turn back time to return to ignorance, and save them both from himself.

“Leave,” he rasped numbly, staring at the floor.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, but his protest evaporated when Sherlock met his eyes. While his face was blank, Sherlock’s eyes were filled with a level of grief Mycroft had never witnessed in another human being before.

“I just … want to be alone with him,” Sherlock admitted, voice thick with emotion. He turned back to John, refusing to look away. Next to him, there was a quiet sigh, the scrape of chairs, and the curtain was pulled aside.

“We’ll be down the hall if you need us,” Lestrade said quietly as they left, footsteps echoing on the tile floor. The sound of the unit door clicked open and shut. Sherlock knew Lieutenant Carlton was on duty at the nurses station, but couldn’t be arsed to care.

He stood and moved to the side of the bed, hesitating only a moment before reaching out to grasp John’s fingers again. He longed to crawl into the bed and wrap himself around John, to hold onto him with everything he had. To feel the _life_ still coursing through John and force it to endure. He would fuse them together by will alone, to make it as physically impossible to live apart as it was emotionally. Sherlock would pull John back to the land of the living, or John would take Sherlock with him when he went.

How much longer did they have? Hours? Minutes?

Sherlock brought his free hand up to John’s cheek, cupping it gently, cautious of the wires and tubes. There was so much he needed to say to John, unspoken feelings he’d never had to put in words before: gratitude and affection and regret.

But his throat was tight, and his eyes blurred with tears that had been kept at bay too long.

“John, please,” Sherlock choked out in a ragged whisper. “Please forgive me.”

The dam broke, silent sobs tearing through him, sending Sherlock to his knees by the bed. He curled into himself as he wept, head at John’s hip, even as he kept his grasp on John’s hand.

He was entirely unprepared when John’s fingers squeezed his in return.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long hiatus! 
> 
> As always, my betas hotshoeagain and jbaillier are the real MVPs of this tale! 
> 
> In other news - I'm excited to be participating in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 auction! If you enjoy my writing and/or detest the current state of affairs in 'Murica, [bid on me](https://88thparallel.tumblr.com/post/169444730014/88thparallel-fth-contributor-page) and I'll spin you a Sherlock or Cabin Pressure yarn of your choosing!

“It’s impossible,” Doctor Stapleton dismissed, pity in her eyes. “He’s under too much sedation. It was most likely just a reflex or a muscle spasm.”

Sherlock ignored the logical part of himself that agreed with her. The glimmer of hope he’d found in that brief but deliberate squeeze still reverberated through him. Sherlock’s heart ached with a swell of defiant optimism.

Once Doctor Stapleton had gone, he pulled the curtain closed and lowered the side rail on the bed. He grabbed John’s right hand like a lifeline, determined to notice if it moved again.

“John… I’m so sorry. Please … if you can hear me … you have to _fight_. You’re young, and strong, and if anyone has a chance to beat this, logic dictates that it must be you.”

Leaning in so close that his forehead touched John’s temple, Sherlock whispered words he’d spoken days earlier into his ear. Words that suddenly had new meaning now that Sherlock truly knew what fear was. He had to learn how to say such things, if there was even the tiniest of chances that this disaster could turn its course. “I’m afraid, John. Afraid. I’ve always been able to keep myself distant ... divorce myself from feelings. But ... I can’t do that anymore. Not with you. If you can hear me … please John, give me a sign.”

Gently but briefly, he gave himself permission to lay his head on John’s shoulder, feeling the mechanical rise and fall of his chest. Hearing the steady, reassuring beating of John’s heart gave Sherlock back some of the strength the past few days had thoroughly drained him of.

John’s hand was still. Sherlock ran his thumb gently over John’s knuckles, and waited.

 

* * *

 

Hours passed in silence, punctuated by nurse visits at regular intervals. Angela was on the night shift, and each time she checked in on John she talked to him as if he was awake. It seemed to be common among those nurses with experience working in intensive care.

“Good evening, John,” she said with a bright smile as if the man wasn’t laying comatose on life support. “Just going to get you hooked up to some new fluids and take a quick blood sample. Your labs are looking much better tonight, and your fever is down quite a bit – good on you!”

Sherlock tried not to scowl at her grating perkiness, but the signs that John was improving stoked the tiny light of hope that Sherlock was adamantly protecting within himself. He wondered if that was Angela’s tactic, a way for her to relay information to Sherlock without having to engage him directly.

In the windowless Baskerville medical unit, only Sherlock’s watch gave him any indication of whether it was night or day. He found himself senselessly tapping his foot in time with John’s heartbeats like the measures of a song, the ventilator serving as percussion. Everyone kept trying to offer him something to pass the time – magazines, books, bringing in a television – but he couldn’t afford be distracted if there was a chance John would react to his presence again.

He occasionally passed time wandering the halls of his mind palace, but made sure he never strayed so deeply that he wouldn’t be jolted back to reality if he sensed even the tiniest movement or sound out of John.

Besides, everything was wrong in his mind palace now. His footsteps echoed hollowly down the hallways, which seemed to go on forever. All the rooms were cold and dark, and many of the doors locked. He felt disoriented, and got lost looking for … what was he looking for? What did it even _matter?_

Soon after Angela left for a break, coffee was set down on the small table beside him. Sherlock blinked at the steam rising from the paper cup and looked up to see Lestrade, hands in his pockets, looking at John.

“How’s he doing?”

“No change,” Sherlock said, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes felt gritty and his mouth was dry. He picked up the coffee and took a sip, wincing when it burned his tongue.

He tried to keep his voice cool and unaffected. “Is my brother still here?”

Lestrade nodded, looking at the floor as he spoke. “You know, Sherlock … he won’t admit it to you, but he’s moved heaven and earth to be able to stay and run things from here. You know how hard that is for someone at his level … he’s a hair’s breadth away from jeopardizing relations with several ally nations. And he’s arranged it so that I can stay too.”

Sherlock scoffed. “If it’s so much trouble, _go._ I didn’t ask you to--”

“Don’t be an idiot. As long as we can manage, we’re not going anywhere. I know you’re upset with Mycroft, but he is doing everything he can for John, and for you.”

“Then he should find a way to get Harry and Mrs Hudson here.”

“You’re not hearing what I’m saying, Sherlock. He’s done everything he _possibly_ can without hesitation; pulled strings, called in favors, reorganised some meetings that sound really important. If he _could_ get clearance for Harry and Mrs Hudson, he _would_. The fact that he can’t should show you just how impossible it really is.”

Sherlock sat for a moment, taking in Lestrade’s words, searching for a biting response but unable to muster the energy. The animosity he had felt toward Mycroft was fading, at least temporarily. In the end he said nothing, slouching back in his chair instead.

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw Lestrade cross his arms and rock back on his heels, pursing his lips as he thought.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock, we’ve known each other a long time now, yeah?”

Sherlock let out a groan of irritation. “Do spare me the pointless questions, George.”

Lestrade squared his jaw and shook his head in exasperation. “Alright, fine. I’ll come out and just say it, then. I’ve helped pull you out of some pretty low places over the years, Sherlock, and each time, I vowed I wouldn’t let you get there again. But I’ve never seen you quite like _this_ before, and it worries me. And I know your brother is worried too. I can see what John means to you--”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock growled, finally turning to look at Lestrade, eyes stormy.

Lestrade closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you can fool yourself, Sherlock, but you can’t fool me. It’s not a bad thing to care about people.”

“Mycroft would disagree.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s changed his mind if he ever believed that to begin with,” Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock scowled.

“The point I’m trying to make is … I know how you deal with uncomfortable emotions, and what you turn to for comfort when things go wrong. I don’t want to see you go down that road again. I won’t _let_ you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and Lestrade lifted his chin in challenge, inviting the fight he knew he’d win.

Truthfully, the thought of using drugs _had_ crossed his mind, but only as a means to his end should John succumb to this illness. Not that that admission would appease Lestrade.

“Do you think I _want_ to threaten you? Especially here, and now? I just want to know that you’re taking care of yourself. You need to get cleaned up, and put some real _food_ in your stomach, and get some _actual_ sleep with a REM cycle or two. Because you’re no good to him if you’re falling apart yourself.”

“I promised John I wouldn’t leave,” Sherlock mumbled, tracing John’s hand with his eyes.

“And what do you suppose _John_ would tell you if he were awake right now?”

Sherlock huffed and glared at Lestrade, who merely raised his eyebrows.

“What? No witty retort? That’s because you know I’m right.”  

“If he wakes and sees I’ve gone, he’ll think I abandoned him and he’ll be terrified. He needs me. I won’t leave him.”

“He’s under pretty deeply, Sherlock. The doctors told us it usually takes people awhile to wake up after they stop keeping him under with medications, and he’s still getting them.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to mention the fact that John had squeezed his hand. No doubt Lestrade would agree with what Doctor Stapleton told him last night, and Sherlock didn’t want to listen to such scepticism. He needed to believe it was more than just some spasm.

Still, although he was ambivalent about eating, and the idea of sleeping was abhorrent (but becoming harder to resist), Sherlock knew he could do with a shower and a change of clothes. He hadn’t had either since that first night when he’d tumbled into the bog.

“Okay. Compromise.” Lestrade looked at his watch. “It’s half-six now. Doctor Stapleton is due back at eight. She’ll have an update and we can go from there. If she thinks he'll wake up any time soon, you can stay. Otherwise, you're taking a shower and getting some real sleep.”

Sherlock nodded once, reluctantly.

 

* * *

 

“Increasing the antiviral has made a world of difference. We’re seeing an exponential drop in the viral load since we started the constant infusion, as well as favourable changes in vital signs that indicate Doctor Watson is stabilising in a less precarious manner. His fever is even coming down on its own. We’re trying to be pragmatic, but the consensus among the team is right now is very optimistic.”

Sherlock felt his breath catch and it was a moment before he could respond. Was she really saying what he thought she was saying? “He’s … recovering?”

Doctor Stapleton kept her smile reserved. “At this current point in time, it seems so.”

Hope swelled in Sherlock, but the pessimist in him fought against it. “What about the residual effects of the illness?”

“It’s hard to say while he’s still unconscious. With as much trauma as his body has been through, we’d like to continue keeping him sedated for a bit more to allow him the time to heal.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell back to John on the bed, trying to get used to the emotions battling within him. Optimism was never his strong suit, and the self-loathing still raging within Sherlock told him he hadn’t earned the right.

Caution was there, too. Days of watching John deteriorate, struggling to hold onto life … it was as if he was in the woods again, helpless as John’s feet moved closer to the edge of the cliff. It still felt like the ground could crumble away beneath them at any time.

“How much longer?”

“At this point there are two things we’re monitoring closely: the first is seizure activity in his brain. Fortunately his brain activity has been normal, with no anomalies since the last seizure stopped. The second thing we’re watching for are any abnormal rhythms in his heart. It’s been 12 hours since Doctor Watson experienced ventricular fibrillation. We’ve only seen a few minor arrhythmias since then – things that even healthy hearts manifest sometimes – but Doctor Dalal wants him to be symptom free for 24 hours before we start to wean him off of the sedation.”

Lestrade nodded and let out a deep breath. “So, it’s just more waiting, then?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

It was a blessing and a curse, to be in limbo like this. John had certainly been through hell already, but what awaited him on the other side now? Was John destined for a new kind of nightmare if his body or mind were too battered to fully recover?

Not knowing was infuriating, but there was also an odd comfort in it. With John unconscious, Sherlock could hold onto hope: the best-case scenario that John would be fine. But when he woke, all possibilities evaporated and only the truth would remain, and that truth might be devastating.

Once Doctor Stapleton departed, Lestrade clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and smiled. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

Sherlock frowned and nodded once, slowly, still taking it all in.

Lestrade kept his expression encouraging. “You heard her. They’re keeping him sedated to be on the safe side, but he’s getting better! We don’t have to worry so much anymore. This would be a good time to do what we talked about, look after yourself a bit. Go take a shower, eat. Sleep. He's going to need you to be at your best when he finally wakes up, yeah? They have a room set aside for you, an officer’s quarters. John will be here when you’re done. I’ll stay with him.”

 

* * *

 

The water was near-scalding, but it still didn’t seem hot enough. As if the punishing spray could melt away all of the guilt and pain and stress. As if the weight of so many emotions could thaw and rinse off of Sherlock’s shoulders, down the drain.

Sherlock wouldn’t admit it to Lestrade, but he was exhausted in a way he’d never known before. On cases, he could go days without rest as his mind shifted into high-gear and took over. To break for sleep was unnecessary and unproductive, and even the physical exertion of chasing criminals (or occasionally fleeing from them) only felt invigorating.

But, these last few days, paralyzed by a new kind of fear, unable to use his intellect to help John, having to withstand idle hours wrestling with heavy emotions he could no longer deny he was capable of experiencing … Sherlock was utterly wrung out.

He let the water run down his back, rolling his neck and shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension that had built up.

John was recovering. The doctors were optimistic.

Sherlock’s stomach was still in knots.

The possibility that the man who woke might not be the John Watson Sherlock had known was terrifying. They couldn’t assure Sherlock there would be no brain damage until John was conscious to prove it. Even a small amount of impairment could be life-changing.  

Sherlock knew he would never abandon John, no matter what state he ended up in. But would he be able to live at Baker Street? Would Sherlock have to hire an in-home nurse or carer, or would he be able to take care of John on his own? Would John be able to talk or read or feed himself? Would John even remember Sherlock?

Icy terror clawed at Sherlock’s chest at the possibility that John might not remember him. Lightning wouldn’t strike the same place twice – if he had forgotten Sherlock, there was no way John would have the patience to get to know him again, especially not after contracting brain damage. The chemistry they’d had that day in the Barts lab, and after their first case in Brixton … how could it be replicated, if John wasn’t the same as he had been? No one had ever stuck around Sherlock that long before, and certainly not been close enough to consider him a friend.

_Obviously. Look what happened to the one who did._

Even if the best-case scenario came true, and John recovered with no lasting effects, how would he react once he learned that this whole ordeal was Sherlock’s fault? That someone he trusted so implicitly hadn’t hesitated to use him as an experiment that nearly cost him his life?

What could Sherlock possibly say to get him to stay? To beg John’s forgiveness? When he promised to never experiment on John again (just the thought made him ill, now), would John believe him?

Would the possibility that John had more serious feelings toward Sherlock change his mind? _It was just feverish nonsense,_ he reminded himself. And even if it wasn’t, John had been delirious at the time, and had no control over what he was saying. He’d given up his own secret unwillingly.

Regardless, if John felt something more for Sherlock before, he certainly wouldn’t feel that way once he knew what Sherlock had done to him. And Sherlock was hardly worthy of such affections anyway.

He turned the shower off and toweled himself dry. The accommodations he had been offered were sparse and utilitarian, but the bed (a thin mattress on a no-frills bed frame) still called to him.

Lestrade assured Sherlock he’d call him on the room’s phone for even the slightest development with John. Sherlock picked up the old handset and listened to the dial tone blare, even as he jiggled the phone jack in the wall to make sure it was secure. Confident it was in solid working order, he pulled back the crisp white sheets and grey wool duvet and crawled into bed.

Thinking about the past was bittersweet, thinking of the future was filled with uncertainty. Thinking of all that might have been and no longer could be was unbearable. In the end, Sherlock recited the periodic table. He barely made it to sodium before he fell into dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the first section - realistic depiction of extubation based on my own experience and those accounts of others. A few people have mentioned that it was a tense read for them so I figured a warning wasn't a bad idea. If that kind of thing might bother you, just skip to the second section where John asks for water ;)

John couldn’t breathe. No … that wasn’t quite right, but he was certainly choking. Something at the back of his throat was making him gag. He lifted his hands to try to claw it out, but someone stopped him before he could get to his mouth, and guided his arms back down to his sides.

He didn’t have the energy to fight whoever was restraining him, so he was left with trying to cough up whatever was lodged in his windpipe, feeling his body convulse reflexively around it. His chest filled with pressure and his throat retched around it, overridden by the machine as he tried to breathe on his own.

He could make out voices, speaking soothingly to him and urgently to each other. It was hard to make out words through the constant hiss of air and his own fuzzy thoughts. His body ached and his head was pounding.

A man’s voice, a familiar one, deep and comfortable and reassuring. “… alright, John … going to be okay … doctors … I’m here.”

The others he didn’t know.

“… responding. Switch the vent to … ”

“… you with us, John?”

“… 10cc syringe? Just in case he … ”

“… the suction ready.”

They all sounded like they were underwater. Or maybe John was.

A hand on his forehead, cupping his cheek. “… open your eyes? John … need you to open your eyes.”

It took John a moment to parse the sounds together into an understandable request.

John struggled to blink, his eyelids heavy. He winced at the light. Blurry figures came into focus: a woman in green. A woman and two men in white.

Behind them, the man with the deep voice and familiar dark hair. John knew him. He squinted at the man’s smile, full of relief and something like awe, the cause of which couldn’t possibly be just the fact that John had opened his eyes? On second thought, it did feel like a feat worth celebrating, as John fought to keep his eyes from sliding closed again. And there was definitely nothing else smile-worthy about this miserable situation.

A woman’s face appeared in front of him, but John couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus on her features. “Welcome back, John,” she said cheerily. “We’re going to get this pesky tube out for you; we just need you to relax, alright? Can you squeeze my hand?” There was a warm pressure around his fingers.

His chest kept rising and falling without his input, and John gagged again as his body tried to rebel with its own rhythm. He felt like he was suffocating, unable to get enough air. Something was beeping loudly nearby.

He understood what seemed to be happening to him (although he didn’t know _why),_ vaguely remembered doing it to others himself. Young men in desert camouflage, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. _“You’re okay, Private, the machine is just helping you breathe right now. Just relax for me, it’s going to be alright.”_ Certainly he hadn’t tormented his men like _this_ … had he?

John squeezed the hand like a lifeline. Anything to make this torture end.

The instinct to struggle against the discomfort was unbearable. John screwed his eyes shut and weakly twisted, trying to find leverage to sit up and take control; get away from the pain. Firm, clinical hands held his forehead and chin, keeping his head still. They were trying to soothe and reassure him, but he couldn’t focus on their words through his panic.

A strong, gentle hand rested on his leg, squeezing his ankle reassuringly, and John stilled a little, knowing it was the man with the dark hair and deep voice. He was still here.

Something was threaded down through the tube and a horrible suction pulled at a part of him he’d never felt before.

“Okay, John, we just need a big cough now, on three …”

John choked as the tube slid up his throat and out of his mouth. The pressure in his chest was gone, his sore lungs finally still. His throat burned.

“John? Can you hear me? John?” The hands let go of his chin and forehead to hold his cheek again. A woman’s voice, commanding and urgent, patting his face insistently. “Come on, John, we need you to breathe for us. Big breath now.”

“Breathe, John!” the deep voice pleaded from the end of the bed, hand tightening on John’s leg.

Finally, his body remembered what it had been fighting to do, and John sucked in a cool, shaky breath on his own. The hand on his ankle relaxed, and the woman laughed in relief.

“Alright! Well done, you!”

Movement and voices resumed around him. Something cold touched John’s chest as exhaustion started to take over. Cool air hit his nostrils and something was strung over his ears. He knew the name for it but couldn’t think of it now. _Carmela? Candelabra? Tarantula?_

 _Cannula,_ he remembered with an undue sense of accomplishment, just before unconsciousness took him.

 

* * *

 

It took a few moments for John to realize the huge, dry, cottony thing in his mouth was his own tongue. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too raw.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “John?”

He winced as he peeled his eyes open to see a familiar face, laden with concern.

“Water,” he managed, barely a whisper.

“You’ve been cleared for ice chips. We’ve got to take it slow for now. Open your mouth.”

John did as instructed and was rewarded with a small, cold gem on his tongue. The cool water coating his mouth and trickling down his throat was such a relief. He managed two more pieces and a solid swallow before his eyes fell closed again.

 

* * *

 

“Hullo, John,” a cheery voice chirped, pulling him to the surface again. “I’m here for your afternoon checks! Can you open your eyes for me? Say hi?” He didn’t feel like opening his eyes, but he cracked them open with a scowl for a moment to appease her. He just wanted to go back to sleep. The owner of the voice, a nurse, didn’t seem to care. “Ah drats, they’re blue. Guess Angela won the pool then. I was sure they’d be green. Oh well. Lovely either way.” He rolled his head away from her and closed his eyes, hoping she’d take the hint. “Look at you, breathing on your own like a champ!”

A sharp voice from beside him scoffed. “You don’t need to be patronizing. He’s a military veteran and a medical doctor, not a child.” _Sherlock._

“Mr Holmes, I promise, I say it with the utmost sincerity. Coming off a vent is no easy task. Many people end up in respiratory distress if they aren’t strong enough, and have to be intubated again.”

Yes … intubated. He had been intubated. But why?

“Strong barely scratches the surface when it comes to Doctor Watson,” Sherlock murmured, but if John had had the energy to speak, he would have disagreed. He didn’t feel very strong right now.

 

* * *

 

John awoke with a start, dark, foggy shadows chasing him to awareness. He was surprised to hear a violin, although something about it seemed … off. Far away and flat somehow. Tinny. Still, the familiar sonata, one Sherlock played often enough for John to recognize, helped settle his inexplicably racing heart.

“Hey, John!” He turned his head to see Greg smiling down at him brightly. He tried to smile back but it felt more like a grimace.

“Do you need anything?”

John hummed a negative, lethargically shaking his head.

“It’s great to see you on the mend. You really had us worried for awhile there. Sherlock’s just run to the loo. He’s been holding it so long I thought he was experimenting on how much his kidneys could take before they burst. He’s barely left your side for a week now.”

John nodded as if he wasn’t overwhelmed by the information. He’d been out for a _week?_ And Sherlock had stayed with him the whole time?

He frowned and lifted his head, looking for the source of the music. Lestrade picked up a mobile sitting on an empty chair and held it up. Sherlock’s phone: music app open, volume on full.

“Couldn’t get his hands on a real violin, so he improvised.”

John nodded and settled back onto the pillow, losing the battle to stay awake yet again. “Guess it works,” Lestrade chuckled.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was here. John couldn’t decide if that surprised him, and where was _here_ anyway?

Mycroft’s voice was low, and John concentrated on keeping his eyes closed and his breathing even, cognizant enough to know his opportunities to listen in to a conversation with the British Government were rare, and a conversation between the Holmes brothers rarer still.

“Has Doctor Stapleton suggested a time frame?”

Sherlock’s voice was sad. “Not until he wakes fully and they can assess for residual issues.”

“Once the virus is eliminated from his system, which lab results suggest will be any day now, he will be safe to be among the general population. If his convalescence will be prolonged, I can arrange for him to be transferred to a civilian hospital in London. His official records now reflect a particularly punishing strain of H1N1. Otherwise, Anthea can organize a home healthcare team for a short-term recovery at Baker Street.”

“Assuming he decides to come _back_ to Baker Street.”

John’s head was fuzzy, but … they talking about _him,_ weren’t they? Why wouldn’t he go back to Baker Street? It was all he wanted right now, to wake up from this foggy nightmare in his bed in their flat.

Mycroft hummed, resigned. “Yes, assuming that.”

There was silence for a long time, and John had almost dozed off when Mycroft spoke again.

“I’ve told you your entire life that caring is not an advantage. I believed it myself. And I still do.”

Sherlock made a noise of protest, but Mycroft cut him off.

“Caring is _not_ an advantage, Sherlock. But I was mistaken in that I assumed it was a disadvantage to be distracted _by_ caring. For you and I, it’s worse for those we care _for._ What has our fondness done _for_ John or Greg? What could it do _to_ them? Obviously far worse things than you or I merely being preoccupied with sentiment.”

Mycroft sighed. “Now I fear the selfish part of me can’t go back to the way I was before. I reckon you may be familiar with the feeling. But even if we could muster the courage to embrace solitude again, we can’t decide their lives for them, regardless of benefits or detriments. It’s not wise to push John away, Sherlock, even if you think it’s what’s best for him. You need to let _him_ make that choice.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

John’s mind was a mess of questions, half of which he couldn’t remember, replaced by new ones as the conversation had worn on. Why would Sherlock push him away? Had John done something wrong? Was it because he was in hospital? Had whatever happened to John hurt Sherlock in some way?

He couldn’t make sense of any of it; words and thoughts snaked away like strands of smoke, impossible to grasp or piece back together. Phantasmic.

But Sherlock hadn’t insulted Mycroft once, and Mycroft was extolling sentiment. John decided he must still be dreaming.

 

* * *

 

“Ice?” John winced, blinking sluggishly as his eyes focused.

“You’ve graduated to water. I’m going to sit you up a bit.” The bed beneath John moved mechanically, and a straw was placed between his lips.

“Small sips, slowly.”

John hummed in agreement, but Sherlock pulled the straw away when John’s body overruled his brain and he started sucking it down too fast.

“You’ll be sick,” he admonished.

“Too late for that,” John rasped, mouth twitching in a half-smile.

 

* * *

 

He recognized the man with Sherlock, but John couldn’t place him right away. Although there were still cobwebs, his head felt infinitely clearer and his eyes no longer threatened to cross or close.

The man wore nurses’ scrubs and had a shiny, shaved head. His kind face was familiar. He stood at the foot of the bed with Sherlock, speaking quietly. “Once we’re sure he’s fully conscious and can check his gag reflex, the doctor will remove the NG tube and he can start on clear fluids.”

John let his eyes wander, taking in the large room, with multiple empty beds in darkened triage bays. He recognized this place, too. Remembered being cold. The bald man had let John put his jumper and jacket back on to stay warm during … a medical test? He hadn’t felt well. John looked down at himself to see he was definitely not still wearing his own clothes.

“What about the other tubes and IVs? Certainly they should be able to -- John!”

“Ah, look who’s back with us! Great to see you, Captain Watson!”

Sherlock was at his side in two strides, Lieutenant Carlton not far behind on his left.

John’s voice was hoarse when he spoke, and he managed a lazy smile. “Guess this means I failed the tests then?”

Carlton grinned, shaking his head. “Let’s just say your scores left a lot to be desired.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am constantly in awe of the response to this story. Every single comment, kudos, or personal message I've received means so much to me, I can't even put it to words. It has been a wonderful boost for me as I find my way back into writing after such a long hiatus in my life.
> 
> As always, the polish is thanks to my betas, hotshoeagain and j_bailler <3

“Now, don’t say I didn’t warn you about your clothes,” Lieutenant Carlton remarked amiably.

John winced at the memory as he tried to clear his sore throat. “Guess I was due for a wardrobe overhaul anyway. At least that’s what my flatmate always says,” John laughed, but Sherlock didn’t seem to catch the remark. He was looking at John as if he couldn’t believe he was real, his expression full of relief and wonder. His hands gripped the bedrail so tightly his knuckles were white.

 _“He’s barely left your side for a week now,”_ John vaguely remembered someone saying, but he couldn’t remember who. Greg? Maybe he’d been dreaming.

Lieutenant Carlton held out a cup of water, and helped guide the straw to John’s mouth.

He sipped slowly, the cool liquid soothing his sore throat.

“Doctor Stapleton will be happy to know you’re awake. I’ll let her know. You’re swallowing just fine, so we’ll get Mischa and Angela to remove that NG tube for you in the meantime.”

“Ta,” John said, watching him go.

He turned back to Sherlock, whose smile had faltered.

“Hey,” he said once their eyes met.

“John,” Sherlock whispered reverently, the word fraught with so much emotion, John knew the circumstances that put him in this bed had been dire. Sherlock’s eyes bore into his, searching, filled with joy and awe, but also something like pain. Grief. Regret. And to John’s surprise, a glassy layer of withheld tears.

“Whoa, hey, Sherlock,” he soothed when Sherlock suddenly looked away, breathing hard. John reached for his hand, brushing the tips of his fingers over Sherlock’s knuckles. He was surprised but didn’t flinch when Sherlock seized his hand. His palm was warm and dry and might have been trembling. John gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, it’s okay. Are you alright?”

Sherlock laughed in disbelief, shaking his head. He closed his eyes and sniffed, trying to regain his composure. “I think I’m meant to be asking you that.”

“I’m fine,” John replied automatically, although he felt far from it. Still, he’d never seen Sherlock so open and vulnerable, the sociopath façade he wore like armor cast aside so completely. Clearly whatever had happened to John had hurt Sherlock just as much.

“Knock knock!” a young woman’s voice called from the other side of the curtain.

Their hands fell apart and Sherlock took a deep breath, managing to resume his typical indifferent-yet-irritated charade.

The curtain pulled back and two women in scrubs stood smiling brightly. “Good morning, Doctor Watson! So great to see you awake!” A nurse with a Scottish accent chirped. “I’m Mischa, and this is Angela, we’re your nurses, along with Lieutenant Carlton from Baskerville, who you already know obviously.”

“See, Mischa, I told you those blue eyes would sparkle when he was awake,” Angela flirted, winking at John as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Now, let’s get you eating on your own again, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

They’d just finished removing the NG tube when doctors descended on the medical unit, a gaggle of excited men and women in scrubs and lab coats following Doctor Stapleton. John felt his jaw drop at the instant crowd, overwhelmed. Sherlock stepped closer, his hand gripping the bed’s side rail, straightening his back and tensing defensively.

“Doctor Watson,” a man in a white coat greeted with a genuine grin and a touch of awe. “It’s wonderful to see you awake. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, overcome some incredible odds. I can safely say I speak for the whole team when I say I am delighted to finally meet you properly. I’m Doctor Hernandez, your neurologist.”

One by one the others introduced themselves, but John’s mind was too scattered to keep track of so many new names and faces. Still, the inventory he managed to take was alarming: a neurologist, a virologist, a cardiologist, an anesthesiologist, an internist specializing in infectious diseases, nurses, and a team of scientists who weren't doctors, along with Doctor Stapleton and Lieutenant Carlton.

“I didn’t realize Baskerville had so many doctors on the base,” John murmured, horrified he’d been ill enough to warrant the attention of a small hospital’s-worth of specialists.

“Oh, we don’t normally work here, Doctor Watson,” a petite woman replied. John couldn’t remember if she was the virologist or the cardiologist. “We were brought in specifically for your case. Official government orders.”

John’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Did that mean Mycroft was involved?

Beside him, Sherlock let out a frustrated huff of air. For as uneasy as John felt, Sherlock seemed twice as tense.

After more blood samples and a cursory physical exam, Doctor Stapleton took over. “We have a few questions for you, John. We can start slow and see how you manage. Does that sound okay?”

John nodded. “I’m still a bit groggy, but I’ll do my best.”

“That’s just fine. We can start with the easy ones. Can you tell me your name?”

“John Watson.”

“And do you know what year it is?”

“2011.”

“Do you remember where you are?”

“Baskerville military base in Devon.”

“And the prime minister?”

“David Cameron.”

“Spectacular,” she beamed, looking to the other doctors in tentative celebration. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

John took a moment to think, racking his brain. “Talking to Lieutenant Carlton, and … I think I got a bloody nose?”

“That’s right,” the lieutenant agreed.

Doctor Stapleton fixed John with a serious look. “We really need you to think carefully, John. There’s nothing else you remember after that?”

John bit his lip and frowned as he thought, but there was nothing. A disconcerting void where he now knew they expected him to have recollection.

He shook his head slowly. “No. Nothing.”

“Okay, we can come back to that later; your memory may return in time. Physically, how are you feeling?”

He took inventory. “My throat is sore and I have a pretty bad headache. My body hasn’t felt this bruised since I was in boot camp. My chest feels like it was crushed in a vice.”

“We’ll have the nurses get you something to make you more comfortable. I know the team would like to examine you individually depending on their areas of expertise, but that can wait for now. I just have a few more questions. Is that okay?”

John hummed affirmatively. Beside him, Sherlock folded his arms, the picture of impatience.

“Can you identify or describe the people in the room with you right now?”

John’s brow furrowed at the odd request, but he acquiesced. “Sherlock Holmes, two nurses at the nurses station, Lieutenant Carlton, and …” he smiled sheepishly at the others, “I’m sorry I can’t remember all of your names, but … two scientists and eight doctors including you, Doctor Stapleton.”

“Fantastic, John. And can you describe the room to me? What do you see?”

That was an odd question. John looked to Sherlock to verify he’d heard correctly, but Sherlock was standing at John’s head, staring down the doctors with his arms crossed like a bodyguard.

“Humor me?” Doctor Stapleton smiled indulgently.

John nodded slowly, going along with it. “Yes, sorry. I see … beds, chairs, medical equipment, doors to a closet and an operating theatre …” Realization dawned on him. They were checking his eyesight. “I mean, I can see just fine. My vision was a little fuzzy when I woke up but now everything is clear. I can read the sign by the door if you want me to.”

“No, that’s alright. Maybe you can just tell me, what do you think this room is used for?”

“It’s a medical triage unit ... but it looks like you've repurposed it as an ITU?”

More congratulatory looks were passed around. It seemed like an overreaction.

“Great. You’re doing really well, John. Really well. And can you tell me, emotionally, how are you feeling?”

Emotionally? That was _definitely_ a strange question. Maybe it was a newer patient practice he wasn’t familiar with yet, since all the other doctors seemed to think nothing of it, and appeared to be eagerly awaiting John’s response.  

“I’ve got a lot of questions,” he admitted after a moment of thought. “Obviously it’s alarming to hear I’ve been so sick that I needed a specially appointed medical team, but mostly I’m just knackered, and want to go home.” He shot a tired smile at Sherlock, who finally met his gaze, but Sherlock was biting his lip, making his returning smile look more like a grimace. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Our goal is definitely getting you home as soon as we can,” Stapleton continued, smiling. “Can you rate your feelings for me?”

“Uh… sure?”

“On a scale of one to five, with one being _not at all_ and five being _very much,_ do you feel angry?”

“Um. No. Not at all. One.”

“Happy?”

“I mean, I _do_ feel like I got hit by a truck, so … two?”

“Of course. How about sad?”

“One.”

“Tired?”

“Five.”

“Anxious?”

He looked at the people surrounding him. Their focus was intimidating, a sea of eyes poring over his every motion, scrutinizing his every word. Combined with the steadily growing uneasiness he felt at the peculiar line of questioning, it made him want to shrink into the bed. It would be embarrassing to answer honestly; he was a grown man -- a soldier, a doctor --  and everyone here was only trying to help him. Although anxiety was currently his strongest emotion (and only growing stronger), John tempered his response. “Four.”

Doctor Stapleton frowned and John saw Sherlock and Lieutenant Carlton appeared similarly worried. The other doctors exchanged concerned glances and a few jotted notes. It was obviously the wrong answer, and John wondered what reaction his truthful _six_ would have garnered.

“What are you anxious about, John?”

He chuckled uneasily. “Mainly these questions.” The joke fell flat, not even a single sympathetic laugh in return. He forced the nervous smile from his face, cleared his throat, and tried again. “It just feels odd to not remember anything, is all. To lose a whole week where I was apparently at death’s door.”

He threw in the last line hoping someone would refute his claim. Tell him it hadn’t been that long, and the situation hadn’t been that dire. No one did. John’s stomach twisted as Greg’s words came back to him: _“You had us all really worried.”_

“Maybe you can just fill me in on what I can’t remember? Doctor … um …” John made eye contact with the man, trying and failing to remember his name.

“Vargas.”

“Yes, thank you. Doctor Vargas is a … virologist? And one of you is … a specialist in infectious diseases?”

The internist raised her hand.

“So I was obviously sick with something? Must've been pretty bad if I'm still here at the base.”

“We’ll get to all that in time, John,” Doctor Stapleton assured him. “Right now we just want to see how you’re recovering, and make sure you’re feeling well and relaxed.”

“You are _completely_ safe here, Doctor Watson,” Lieutenant Carlton insisted.

John‘s eyes shot to Sherlock, hoping for an explanation, an encouraging expression. The only assurance of safety John valued was Sherlock’s. But Sherlock wouldn’t look at him, staring at the floor like he was trying to burn a hole in it with his eyes.

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I _wasn’t,”_ he murmured, fighting the real anxiety starting to rise. He hated knowing that his emotions were so hard to hide, with his blood pressure and heart rate displayed in large digital readouts for all to see on the monitors beside him. “I’d just like to know what happened to me.”

“It’s alright, there’s no need to be upset. Let’s take a moment to calm down,” Doctor Stapleton soothed, and the doctors nodded in agreement, placating expressions all around.

John had barely raised his voice. He felt like he was going crazy.

“Sorry. I’m fine,” he said, smiling with a calmness he definitely didn’t feel. He smoothed the blanket on his lap. The IV tubing coming out of his hands and the surreality of the current situation made him feel like a marionette. “It just … seems like you’re insinuating I _wasn’t_ safe at some point recently, so is that how I caught whatever it was that I was sick with?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Stapleton assured him, brushing his concerns off a bit too quickly to be convincing. “Are you alright to keep going? Just a few more?”

Sherlock‘s arms fell from their folded position in disbelief. “I think you’ve gotten enough answers for now. You doctors are always prattling on about rest, now you’re only riling him up.”

John _was_ exhausted, but he was determined to continue. They’d opened a Pandora’s box and John needed to see what else would come out. Every question they asked him and every test they did was a clue to figuring out what had happened. Why wouldn’t they just _tell_ him?

“It’s alright Sherlock, I can manage a few more.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

“Great. I’d like to do some word associations. I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind with each word. No right or wrong answers, just the very first thing that pops into your head.”

John nodded. He swore he heard Sherlock growl.

“Okay, here we go. Car?”

“Drive.”

“Water?”

“Wet.”

“Sport?”

“Rugby.”

“Pool?”

“Uh…” John blinked, suddenly feeling winded. _Bomb. Laser. Snipers._ _Moriarty._ “Swim,” he managed, but he knew his hesitation had been noted.

Doctor Stapleton’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment before she looked back down at her notes to continue. “Sandwich?”

“Hungry.”

“Gas?”

“Hob.”

“Cat?”

John gave a sheepish half-smile as he replied: “meow.”

“Dog?”

An image flashed in John’s mind, quick and dark and terrifying. Shadows he couldn’t quite make out, sounds that felt like they reverberated right through him. Adrenaline. Fear.

“Doctor Watson?” Something was beeping loudly. His heart rate monitor. “Are you still with us? Doctor Watson?”

His chest felt tight, his skin prickled with goosebumps. The urge to run was overwhelming.

A warm hand squeezed his forearm and he blinked. “John? It’s alright, John, you’re alright.” Sherlock leaned over him, searching his eyes for recognition. All of Sherlock’s frustration and anger was gone, replaced with worry. As John came back to himself, breathing hard, blinking away the gossamer shadows, Sherlock held his gaze. “Can you hear me?” John managed a faint nod. “Deep breaths,” Sherlock urged. “You’re okay. It’s alright.”

Doctor Stapleton had backed away from her spot next to the bed, and eyed John wearily, almost … afraid? Lieutenant Carlton, on the other hand, had moved closer, and seemed ready to act, but … doing what? A few of the doctors were whispering to each other and scribbling notes, eyeing John uneasily. At the back of the group, the anesthesiologist (Doctor Lewis, John now remembered) had called Mischa over, and after urgent instructions John couldn’t hear, she nodded and ran off.

The cardiologist was whispering something to Doctor Stapleton, so Doctor Hernandez spoke up. “John, do you know where you are right now?”

“Still in Baskerville.” He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. He swallowed thickly and shook his head. “Sorry, I…”

Sherlock moved his hand from John’s forearm to his shoulder and turned to face the doctors alongside John, a team united. John was grateful for the contact, Sherlock’s warm hand heavy enough to ground him. He wondered if it was just as reassuring for Sherlock. They rarely touched like this, and as innocent as it was, there was something intimate about the comfort it provided, Sherlock’s silent declaration: _I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll protect you._

Doctor Vargas leaned over predatorily. “What was it John? What did you remember?”

“This is outrageous!” Sherlock snapped. “He’s only just woken up and you’re terrorizing him. He’s far from fully recovered, and undoubtedly exhausted. You’re doing more harm than good. This ridiculous interrogation can wait.”

“It’s important we know his mental status, so we can be prepared if there’s a relapse,” Vargas argued, stepping forward toward Sherlock in a clear show of challenge.

“There has never _once_ been mention of relapse,” Sherlock countered, sounding almost more afraid than angry.

“I’ll admit it’s unlikely, but we haven’t had any data for this stage up until now, Mister Holmes. This is _unprecedented._ We don’t know _what_ to expect. It’s important we get as much information as we can—”

“Then look at the lab results! You said it was almost completely eliminated from his system! There has been no evidence of a resurgence, only improvement. What you’re doing now is taking advantage so you have fodder for research grant applications and medical journals. It’s shameful.”

John noticed Mischa had returned, his breath catching when he saw a syringe in her hand. Did they think he needed to be _sedated?_ Luckily, Doctor Lewis put his hand out to stop her, deciding John was calm enough on his own now. He whispered something into her ear and she stayed by his side, ready just in case.

Doctor Vargas was apoplectic. “We all have other patients, Mister Holmes. Patients we’ve been pulled away from in order to try to save the life of a single man, which we did, miraculously. The least we should be allowed is the ability to examine him to understand why and how our solution worked!”

“Stop, both of you!" Doctor Stapleton admonished, holding up her hands. "This is not the time or place for this conversation.” She tilted her head to remind them of their patient's presence. Chastened, Sherlock and Doctor Vargas relaxed begrudgingly, still glaring at each other but backing down.

John clenched his hands into fists when he realized they were trembling.

Doctor Stapleton sighed. “I agree with Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson needs rest. We can finish the other exams later. But John, maybe you can just tell us … what came to mind when I said …” she hesitated, choosing her phrasing carefully. “...That last word?”

John cleared his throat, fighting his nerves. “I don’t really … I can’t remember anything, just … it’s just a bad feeling.” He laid his head back against the pillows as a wave of exhaustion broke over him. His heart was hammering in his chest.

“A bad feeling? Anger?”

“No.” John let out a long breath, closing his eyes. His throat was tight, and his voice was barely a rasp as he admitted, “fear.”

“John--”

 _“Enough!”_ Sherlock snapped. John opened his eyes in surprise to find Sherlock practically baring his teeth at the flock of physicians before them. “He’s _done.”_

Doctor Stapleton nodded. “Yes, alright. We’ll stop there for today. Doctor Watson needs to rest.” She turned to the group. “We’ll meet in the conference room.”

Doctor Lewis stepped closer to the bed as his colleagues began to shuffle away. “How about something to help you sleep, Doctor Watson?”

“No,” John shook his head vehemently. “No more sedatives. I’m fine.”

Doctor Lewis nodded apprehensively, and John could see he was second-guessing himself, wishing he’d ordered instead of offered. “If you change your mind, let the nurses know. I’ve given them approval to give you something if you decide you need it.”

“Mister Holmes, were you planning to join us?” Doctor Stapleton asked.

“I’ll be staying with Doctor Watson,” Sherlock replied coldly, watching the doctors file out of the ward with obvious disdain. Doctor Stapleton pursed her lips, but took it in stride, and John wondered how much hell Sherlock had put her through this week if she’d built up such a tolerance to his attitude.

“It truly is wonderful to see you doing so well, Doctor Watson.” She turned off the brightest overhead lights, and pulled the privacy curtain around the bed. “I’m sure Mister Holmes will let us know if you need anything. Get some sleep.”

John forced a tired smile. “Ta.”

Sherlock finally settled into a chair beside the bed when the ward door clicked open and closed. He didn’t seem to feel the need to play sentry when it was just the nurses around.

John’s eyelids felt heavy, his mind filled with fog. The questions had all been so strange, and then everything had erupted into chaos. With the little energy he had left, he turned his head on the pillow to look at his friend brooding beside him.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks for … for staying. Here. With me.”

Sherlock frowned, confused. “Of course I stayed. There is no one else as important--” He cut himself off, and dropped his eyes, cheeks flushed. He pursed his lips and looked up at John again. “Of course I stayed,” he repeated softly.

His near admission made John’s heart swell. Another revelation that, despite the front he put on for others, Sherlock really cared about John. Cared _for_ him. Maybe not the way John wished he would, but then, John had known since the beginning that Sherlock wasn’t interested in romantic entanglements. This was more than John had ever expected, and it really was a wonderful feeling.

“So … what happened to me, then?” He knew how much Sherlock valued the truth, and if no one else would give it to John, his best friend would.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but took a deep breath instead. Sleep was starting to cloud his vision, but John saw something like sadness in Sherlock’s eyes. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “In due time, John.”

“Lestrade said I’ve been out for a week?”

Sherlock hummed affirmatively and turned away. “You haven’t gotten enough fluids today.” He filled John’s cup from a plastic pitcher and tried to hand it over, but John waved it away.

“It must have been pretty bad, then. I mean … the fact that we’re still on this base instead of a regular hospital …”

Sherlock had started fidgeting with things on the bedside table, straightening a box of tissues next to the water cup and pitcher needlessly.

His restlessness was starting to grate on John’s nerves, so he chuckled, trying to break the tension. “You weren’t using me as a guinea pig, were you?”

His attempt at levity backfired. For a moment, Sherlock looked stricken, suddenly pale and full of anguish. He swallowed and took a deep, slow breath, schooling his features back to neutral. “You really should rest, your eyes are practically closing,” he said quietly, a poorly veiled attempt at redirecting the conversation. “I’m sure by tomorrow you’ll be completely cleared of the dregs of the anesthetics.”

Frustration clawed at John. So much had been revealed since he’d been awake, but somehow he only had _more_ questions and still no answers. They were all purposely being evasive, avoiding giving him the information he deserved to know. Why?

Everyone seemed on edge around him, afraid of some reaction he might have. They took note when he mentioned being anxious or frightened. Obviously Doctor Stapleton’s word association hadn’t been completely random. There’d be no point if she hadn’t been fishing for certain reactions. She was trying to trigger him.

So why had she used the word pool? Had that been coincidental, or did she somehow know about what had happened with Moriarty? Had Moriarty been the one to give him whatever disease he’d been sick with?

And why did _dog_ overwhelm John with fear? He knew the hounds Henry Knight saw were hallucinations, but what he thought he’d seen in the lab that day wasn’t what he was remembering … his thoughts were darker. Not memories of a laboratory, but a feeling of being chased, running in the dark. Even _thinking_ about it was quickly making him uneasy again.

 _Relapse_ and _unprecedented_ and the assertion that they _saved his life, miraculously_ echoed deep in his mind.

What had happened in the week John couldn’t recall? What had been done to him? Remembering how Doctor Stapleton had backed away when he’d panicked during the word association, a wave of nausea hit as a new question occurred to him. _Had he done something to make them afraid of him?_

“Sherlock, please. I can’t remember anything, and it’s obvious I should.”

“John.”

“I just don’t understand why no one will tell me.”

“Just rest, now. We’ll talk in the morning.”

In spite of his best efforts, John succumbed to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I ever thank my betas enough? No. No I can't.
> 
> You know those commercials where people take an allergy pill and suddenly the dull monochrome world is completely saturated in beautiful vibrant color again? hotshoeagain and J_Baillier are my allergy pill. Also, props to fellshish for being my sounding board and poking me from across the world to hurry up and get another chapter up. 
> 
> I also can't thank all of you enough -- to have a loyal following for this story has made this journey to Dartmoor more enjoyable and exciting then I ever could have dreamed. Only a few chapters left now ;)

John was roused a few times by nurses or noises, and once by nothing at all. Each time, Sherlock was there, still and stoic in the chair beside him, ready to fetch John water or to summon or shoo someone away.

When John finally woke from a longer stretch of sleep, he had no clue what time it was.

“The lack of natural light in this place is terribly disruptive to one’s circadian rhythm,” Sherlock remarked nonchalantly, as if they’d been having a conversation instead of Sherlock just reading John’s mind. “It’s almost 7:30 in the morning. You slept for ten hours. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” John admitted, pleasantly surprised. His throat wasn’t as raw and his headache was all but gone. His body was still sore, especially his chest which felt like it had been clamped in a vice at some point. Still, he felt like a lot of that might be fixed if he could have a proper stretch.

“I need to get out of this bed.”

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’d wait on that if I were you. It wouldn’t do to pull on some of those tubes accidentally.”

“He’s more machine now, than man,” John declared in a deep voice, not at all surprised when Sherlock stared at him blankly in return. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. From _A New Hope?”_

Sherlock blinked.

“It’s a Star Wars thing; we watched it together not even a month ago.” No reaction. John rolled his eyes. “Nevermind.”

He turned to assess the IV infuser pump to see how many cords he’d have to wrangle if he could get up and moving, and why did he have so many anyway?

He squinted up at the hanging bags. Maintenance fluids, an antiviral — the dose of which was nearly done. In addition to the central line that was being used for the infusions, he had several regular, corked IVs, EKG wires, a BP cuff, and a pulse ox attached.

At least they had removed the arterial line at some point when he’d been sleeping.

“You’re very likely forgetting one thing in your survey,” Sherlock murmured, bemused and sheepish. He shifted in his seat and avoided eye contact. It took a moment before John realized what he was hinting at.

“Ta. Pretty sure we can do away with the Foley,” John scoffed.

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his mouth but couldn’t manage to hide the smile from crinkling his eyes.

John huffed. “Make yourself useful and go fetch the nurse, you git.”

Sherlock returned with Angela, whose cheerful grin made John feel even more grumpy. Easy to make jokes or be happy when you weren’t the one pissing through a tube.

Sherlock excused himself as John was freed of that nuisance. He was told that as long as a nurse came with him to help with the other tubes and wires, he could use the toilet near his bed. He made a mental note not to wait until the situation was desperate — it took quite a lot of time for Angela to disconnect all the monitoring cables, carefully draping or coiling them up for reattachment when he was done.

When Sherlock returned, he and Angela helped John walk, slowly guiding him back and forth across the room a few times before he felt too worn out to continue. Once he was settled back into bed, Angela headed out to let the medical team know he was ready for the individual exams they had planned.

John rubbed a hand across his eyes absentmindedly. He was definitely awake and clear-headed, and with doctors due any moment, now was his chance. He wanted to know the details of the last week in case they barraged him with more questions, to be prepared for the inevitable oddness to come.

“So, then,” John started, and Sherlock’s face immediately shuttered as he predicted John’s train of thought. John went to run his hand through his hair and grimaced as he encountered thick, waxy gobs dotting his scalp. It was obvious they’d made a perfunctory effort to clean it out, but John would need a proper scrubbing with shampoo and high water pressure. He knew exactly what it was.

“Why did I need an EEG?”

“Your neurologist thought it best.”

“Sherlock … You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, and John could see he was calculating, preparing. “You were ill. It was … serious. But you’re doing much better now, on your way to a complete recovery. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not all that matters to me! Jesus, did they think I had a seizure or… brain damage?”

Sherlock paled considerably, and opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. A rare sight, to see Sherlock flustered. It did nothing to allay John’s fears.  

John slowly exhaled, trying to calm himself. “Can you at least let me know what disease I contracted?”

Sherlock dropped his eyes and swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but it took a few moments before he managed to get the words out. “It … doesn’t have a name yet.”

John was almost speechless with shock, but forced himself to push forward, refusing to lose his momentum. “Ok, then. A mystery disease. Lovely. How did I catch it?”

Sherlock visibly blanched at the question. “John, I —”  

They both jumped as a booming voice startled them both. “Doctor Watson! Mr Holmes!” Doctor Hernandez greeted, and John fought the urge to tell the man to get lost until he was done wringing the answers he needed from his flatmate. “You’ve got a lot of tests to get through today, and you get to start with me. How are you feeling?”

John mumbled something genial as he tried not to glare at Sherlock. As much as he’d despised the doctors last night, Sherlock couldn’t look more relieved. He rose from his seat quickly, blatantly taking the out.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Lestrade and Mycroft should be by a bit later; they’re heading out today, back to London. By the time they found out you’d woken last night, you were already asleep again.”

As if sensing John glowering at him, Sherlock refused to make eye contact as he babbled. “Anyway. I could probably use a shower … something to eat.”

Voluntarily getting something to _eat?_ Sherlock was normally a much better liar than that. If he realized his mistake, he didn’t let on. “Back soon,” Sherlock called over his shoulder. Seething, John watched him go.

 

* * *

 

By noon Sherlock was still missing. John had spent the morning being poked and prodded, his insides scanned and sampled. He’d been scrutinized by the neurologist and cardiologist, with the internist lined up to have a crack at him as soon as he was done with his lunch.  

John eyed the tray in front of him with disdain. His breakfast had been strictly liquids: chicken broth, red jelly, apple juice, a mug of hot water and a tea packet. Lunch wasn’t looking much better, but was a step up nonetheless. He picked up the spoon resting in his oatmeal and tipped it, watching the unappetizing contents slide off the end, landing back in the bowl with a _thwock._

It didn’t matter. He didn’t feel like eating; Doctor Hernandez and Doctor Dalal had finally given him some answers. Although far from the entire picture, John had pieced together enough of what had happened between falling asleep after Lieutenant Carlton’s tests and waking up again two days ago.

That picture was shaping up to be pretty grim.

“I noticed I have EEG electrode paste in my hair,” John said when Doctor Hernandez was distracted, entering notes on his laptop. They’d been building a rapport in between cognitive assessments and radiological scans the doctor had ordered. John had been waiting to catch him off-guard. “I was wondering if you might tell me why.”

John watched the man like a hawk to gauge his reaction, but without hesitation, the doctor looked up at him and nodded. When he spoke, there was no hint of evasiveness in his voice, no sign he was trying to stall or distract John. Doctor Hernandez was open and honest.

“The virus caused meningoencephalitis, and coupled with the high fever you were fighting, you experienced a seizure that progressed into status epilepticus. We decided the safest course of action was to place you in a medically induced coma to stop the seizing and allow your body time to heal.”

Surprised by his effortless success in finally getting answers, John tried a similar approach with Doctor Dalal. He watched her work, silver stethoscope roaming his chest, EKG readings taken. Deep down, John _knew_ why his ribs felt like they’d been crushed. He just wanted confirmation.

“I have a lot of pain in my ribs… I was thinking perhaps costochondritis, maybe as a side effect of the virus?”

She put her chart down and looked him square in the eye, delivering news she knew most people found hard to hear.

“While you were under sedation for your neurological symptoms, you went into ventricular fibrillation. There had been some brief arrhythmias before that, as the notes predicted —” she cut herself off, realizing she’d almost said too much.

There had been evidence and notes for this unnamed virus? Did that mean other people had had it too? What happened to them? The amount of information that aborted sentence might have revealed made John want to scream in frustration.

If she noticed his agitation, Doctor Dalal didn’t let on. “We were forced to use CPR and defibrillation to return your heart to a normal rhythm. It’s a miracle none of your ribs are broken, but a few are bruised.” She held up an image from the chest CT he’d just had for illustration. “Unfortunately, that kind of trauma is unavoidable with chest compressions, but we like to think the benefits outweigh the drawbacks,” she said with a wink. “You probably know that much older patients often end up with broken ribs during resuscitation. Being young and otherwise healthy helped you avoid that.”

John had taken in all the knowledge with a clinical calm, absorbing it intellectually. Nearly detached. Now, finally alone with his thoughts, the weight of what he knew settled over him, heavy and disconcerting.

It still felt surreal to have a whole week missing from his memory. If it hadn’t been for the extubation and anesthesia, it might have felt like a catnap as far as John was concerned. He wished he had a better idea of the progression of the illness. What had his symptoms been, and what timeline had they followed? Had he slept through most of it? How soon had the swelling in his brain become evident?

It was incredibly upsetting to know how close he came to not waking up at all. He really _had_ been at death’s door; walked right up and knocked on it with a lethal heart rhythm. And even if he hadn’t, he’d still suffered dangerous meningeal swelling, then seized for so long they’d been forced to put him into a _coma._ Doctor Hernandez hadn’t elaborated, but John knew from his own experience that they only took such an extreme measure to avoid brain damage. Sherlock had flinched and been rendered speechless when John had suggested as much.

His stomach twisted. John barely felt useful to Sherlock on a good day. Would Sherlock have the patience to keep him around if he were permanently impaired? Was that the reason Sherlock had been flustered?

What good was a conductor of light who had been rendered dim?

He looked around the empty ward, at the darkened bays around him and perfectly made beds all sitting in shadow. Across the room at the nurses station, Mischa ate an apple while working on the computer. His eye caught movement at the ward door. He turned, expecting to see Sherlock, but it was only a soldier walking by.

John suddenly felt incredibly alone.

He resisted the impulse to ask Mischa to find Sherlock for him, not wanting to seem needy or admit to himself that in this moment, he actually was. Not that it wouldn’t be justified … John _had_ just learned that he’d repeatedly been on the verge of dying.

It was a lot to process, and the more he thought about it, the more desperate he grew for Sherlock to walk back through the doors and take his place beside the bed again: familiar face, a comforting presence to ground him in reality. To assure John that he _was_ still alive, that they were both still _here,_ together.

 _“Of course I stayed,”_ Sherlock had said.

So why was he avoiding John now?

Greg said Sherlock hadn’t left his bedside the whole time he’d been unconscious. John’s stomach lurched as he realized Sherlock had most likely witnessed his unending seizure. Had he watched while John had gone into V-Fib and was revived too? Stood by as a team did CPR and tried to shock him back to a normal cardiac rhythm?

Was it all too painful to talk about now, and was Sherlock trying to dodge the conversation altogether? Or did his waking confirm Sherlock’s fears that John was different, changed … broken?

John remembered the look on Sherlock’s face when he had finally woken. The reverence in his voice when he’d whispered John’s name. The tears in his eyes. The desperate way he’d grabbed John’s hand.

Sherlock had been terrified. Of course he had.

John had never seen so much emotion in the man. Feelings that had been forced to the surface because of John. Would he really cast John aside if this illness had lasting effects?

Would John really stay and hold Sherlock back?

John didn’t _feel_ any different, mentally, but would he even be able to recognize it if he were less capable than before? Would they tell him if the tests showed something worrying? Did this have something to do with Doctor Stapleton’s peculiar questioning? Was it the reason the word _dog_ upset him so much?

He thought he’d done well with all the cognitive tests; there’d been nothing he could remember stumbling on. They’d started with his vision, hearing, taste, touch, and smell, which all seemed to be in working order. Then they moved on to asking him to identify colors, shapes, various objects, and alphanumeric characters. After that they had him read from a book out loud and do simple maths, distinguish emotions based on facial expressions, and do some short-term memorization. There had even been a tangram puzzle, which made John feel like he was back in primary school.

He’d sailed through it all. He was sure of it.

For a man who wielded his supposed sociopathy like a shield, maybe it was too much emotion for Sherlock to put on display. Even at the pool, after a bomb and snipers and John throwing himself on Moriarty, Sherlock had managed to cram his feelings into a semi-coherent mumble. If Sherlock was struggling to process everything that happened to John, he might be afraid he’d lose his composure if they talked about too much.

John tried to imagine the opposite. What if their roles had been reversed? Imagining Sherlock sick and helpless, on the verge of dying … having to stand by and observe, helpless, as doctors worked to keep him alive … the chance that he could lose Sherlock … John suddenly found his throat was tight, and pushed away the thought before his emotions got the best of him.

Serving with the RAMC, John knew firsthand how unbearable it was to feel helpless, even _with_ the ability to act as a doctor. Being presented with wounds that were too dire to fix, with men who were too far gone to be saved. He’d learned the necessity of clinical detachment, the importance of compartmentalizing his grief. Once the bodies had been taken away and the blood washed clean, when his shift was over, he’d allowed himself to release it all. Sixty seconds of silent weeping in an empty shower, or screams of rage strangled into his bitten fist in the night. Then the sun came up and he got up and did it all again, because there were no other options, and allowing sorrow to establish a hold in his mind would put other lives at risk.

He had come home from the war with nothing _but_ that built-up sorrow. No purpose. No social circle. No hope for the future… until Sherlock had given him all of that … had _become_ all that. Sherlock staying alive meant John continued to live as well. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if …

Well. It was unthinkable, anyway. A man like Sherlock Holmes was destined to live forever, surely. If anyone could, it would be Sherlock.

Even though the depth of emotion visible in Sherlock right now was startling, it wasn’t far-fetched that his near-death would have such an impact on Sherlock. John had built up calluses to violent deaths and equally violent medical procedures to prevent them, and yet he was still not immune. Sherlock hadn’t had any of those shielding experiences. Of course it would shake him to the core, especially since such an armour most often proved useless when the person suffering was a loved one.

So, discussing what had happened would make Sherlock uncomfortable. If it were too painful a subject to breach, John decided he would happily sit in silence, if only he weren’t sitting alone.

Trying to distract himself from his whirling thoughts, John took a bite of the oatmeal, which had cooled and now had a texture reminiscent of wallpaper paste. He dropped the spoon back into the bowl and took a sip of water to wash it down, then pushed the whole tray away.

“Ah! There he is!”

John felt a weight lift as he looked up to see Lestrade and Mycroft walking toward him followed by a very solemn-looking Sherlock.

“Were they out of decent burgers, then?” Greg asked, grimacing at John’s lunch as he gently clapped him on the shoulder.

John blinked then shook his head as his mind inexplicably filled in, _just consider yourself lucky we weren’t craving frog legs instead!_ He managed a weak laugh even as he saw Sherlock frown. “Guess so.”

“A delight to see you looking so well, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, and although the smile barely touched his lips, John could see the sincerity in his eyes.

“Mycroft,” John said, nodding to the older Holmes. “From what I’ve gathered, I’m still here because of you — because of the doctors you assembled. Thank you.”

The words felt odd but needed to be said. John and Mycroft hadn’t had the most cordial relationship, but the fact that he’d pulled strings and ordered doctors away from their practices to see to him was humbling and sobering. Mycroft inclined his head in a silent acknowledgement.

John expected some sort of snappy remark from Sherlock about Mycroft now, but he just stood behind Lestrade and Mycroft quietly, eyes boring holes in the middle distance. He hadn’t said anything or even made eye contact with John yet, and John felt his heart twinge a little in sadness.

He couldn’t resist trying to provoke a response to lighten the mood. “And thanks to both of you for keeping Sherlock in one piece.”

Mycroft smiled tightly, dropping his eyes. Greg turned to look at Sherlock, who was biting his lip. “Well, I’m afraid he’s all yours now. I’m due back at The Yard bright and early tomorrow.”

“Back to London for you too, Mycroft?”

“Sri Lanka, but hopefully only for a few days. Your doctors tell me by the time I return you may well be settled in back at Baker Street.”

The thought of being home with his own bed and a familiar loo, drinking his favourite brand of tea on his own schedule sounded heavenly. Privacy and quiet, broken only by familiar sounds of the flat, the muted hum of the city outside and perhaps a violin concerto or two.

At the mention of home, Sherlock finally looked up in time for John to make eye contact. John twitched his brows together in a silent _all right?_ Sherlock nodded once, swallowed, and gave him a weak, somber smile. The look on his face made John feel like he was being mourned. Couldn’t Sherlock believe he was truly getting better?

Greg and Mycroft stayed for a few more minutes, Greg promising to look in on John when they were home, Mycroft pledging to arrange a comfortable transport for the journey from Dartmoor. They wished John a speedy recovery and, after an exchange of handshakes, were on their way. John watched them go, walking a bit too close to each other. He filed away the observation to mention to Sherlock later.

“Do you need anything?” Sherlock asked in a cool, unaffected tone John recognized immediately as a façade. They were alone now, the atmosphere suddenly heavy and awkward. Sherlock’s body language spoke of a man ready to bolt, half-turned and leaning toward the door as if being pulled by a magnet.

John replied softly, trying to infuse his features with calm he didn’t feel. “I’m fine, thanks. Listen, Sherlock —”

“Doctor Stapleton mentioned the virologist and the internist still haven’t come round.” He shrugged his arm to check his watch. “They’ll probably be by any minute now. It’s almost gone one, they’ll be finishing lunch —”

“Sherlock —”

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned further toward the door. “I should probably leave you to it, then, if there’s nothing I can get you —”

“SHERLOCK. _Stop.”_ John realized his hands were clenched into fists, and tried to dial his frustration down a little.

As commanded, Sherlock stilled, pursing his lips. “Come here,” John said, and Sherlock stepped closer with a sigh, shoulders slumped and head low like a chastised child. John reached out, gently gripping Sherlock’s wrist, wishing he had the guts to reach for his hand instead. Still, the touch was a relief, almost grounding, and Sherlock didn’t pull away.

“Look … I know what happened to me,” John said, trying not to get derailed when Sherlock’s head snapped up in alarm. “Doctor Hernandez told me about the meningoencephalitis and the seizure. I know they had to put me in a coma. And Doctor Dalal told me that I coded and they had to resuscitate me. I have a feeling that you ended up witnessing all of that.”

Sherlock’s clenched jaw and silence spoke volumes to confirm John’s assertion.

“I also …” John took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist as he unconsciously clenched and unclenched his hands into fists. “I know there was concern about brain damage, and no one has told me the results from the tests yet, but I … I understand if you’re worried. If I’m not able to help you on cases anymore, you don’t have to  — I mean, I know that could be an issue for you. For us.”

 _“What?”_ Sherlock looked at John like he’d grown a second head. “You’re fine, John. You passed everything with flying colors. But even if you hadn’t … John, do you think the only reason I want you in my life is to help me on _cases?”_

John swallowed. “I know how important the work is to you.”

 _“Nothing_ is that important to me, that I would …” He shook his head in disbelief. “You come first. _Always.”_

John looked up and their eyes locked, Sherlock’s very heart and soul so vivid behind the grey-green. Relief washed over John at confirmation that he was not only still mentally intact, but that Sherlock’s loyalty would not have wavered even if he weren’t.

So, why did tension still hang so heavy yet magnetic between them? It didn’t feel like two people who had suffered some taxing times seeking comfort in the other.

Overwhelmed, John dropped his eyes to break the spell. “Well, that’s a relief to know that I … that you … that’s good,” John finished weakly. “But, still, with everything else … I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry I put you through that.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, eyes tormented. “No, John, you didn’t — I —”

John held up his hand. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Everyone was so worried about telling me, and … it _is_ hard to hear, to know that I had been so sick, that I almost …” John cut himself off, shaking his head to dispel the thought. “Anyway, I know now. And I know if things had been reversed, I would … it would be difficult for me, if it had been you going through all that. It’s hard to talk about things like that. I know. So we don’t have to discuss it, especially now. But …” He rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, pursing his lips as he planned his words. “Please don’t disappear on me. It’s just … it’s a bit … lonely without anyone — without _you_ here, and I’m still sort of freaked out by this whole thing, and being in this place …” John caught Sherlock’s eyes and refused to look away, even as vulnerable as he felt. “I just really don’t want to be alone right now. Can you … can you please stay? We don’t have to talk, but … stay?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John and away, conflicted, almost … guilty?

Finally, he nodded, and to John’s relief, managed something resembling a genuine smile. John was struck by the urge to hug him, to reassure Sherlock as much as he needed the reassurance himself; John was still here. He was alive. It was going to be fine.

 _They_ were going to be fine.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to j_baillier, hotshoeagain, fellshish, and asleepatlast for all your help on this one <3

Although he wouldn’t admit it, and on balance was almost as mortified as he was relieved, John was grateful for the ambulance transport back to Baker Street. A solid week after he’d been extubated, John had finally been cleared by all his doctors to be released, but he was still absolutely exhausted. His eyes had fallen shut five miles out of Devon and he’d only woken again as they parked in front of Speedy’s four hours later.

Sherlock had insisted on sitting in the back with John, looking far more tormented about the whole situation than John felt was warranted. He was definitely well enough to return home: all evidence of the virus was wiped from his system, and most of the side effects were now just memories and fading aches. Much as he’d been at John’s bedside, Sherlock had remained in the same stoic position — a quiet sentry sitting vigil from the time they left Baskerville to their arrival at the flat. Surely he hadn’t just watched John sleep the entire ride?

Erring on the side of caution, John’s medical team elected to keep him closely monitored longer than John had thought necessary. Finally, one by one, the medical team members departed, returning to their usual practices and patients. Their last few days at Baskerville had been quiet, with only Doctor Stapleton and her nursing team checking in on John. Although John spent a good portion of the days sleeping, it had been hard staving off boredom when he was awake. When Sherlock wasn’t busy fussing over John, he seemed too distracted by his own conflicted thoughts to be bothered by it, which put John on edge.

John would have assumed that such circumstances would overwhelm Sherlock with ennui and boredom, making him insufferable, but instead he just sat quietly, almost repentant. At one point, John had even worried that Sherlock had caught the virus himself, and the defeated lethargy could be an early symptom. He had actually mentioned these concerns to Doctor Stapleton a few days after waking up, when Sherlock had gone to wash up. It had been easy to get him to submit to blood tests in the name of science, especially in the context of an enigmatic disease. Thankfully, the results came back negative for any signs of illness, but that left John at square one when it came to trying to decipher Sherlock’s conduct. Attempting the straightforward method got him no closer to the truth: any time John tried to ask Sherlock what was bothering him, he was brushed off and the subject changed.

He seemed to try to perk himself up after John had become suspicious, but these attempts soon fell by the wayside and he remained somber and pensive all week. It often seemed as though he was on the verge of bolting, but true to his promise to John, he stayed by his side, leaving only to use the loo or shower. He constantly hovered around John now, ready to help in any way he could. He kept detailed track of John’s water consumption, and the approximate caloric intake of John’s picked-at meals. John drew the line at letting Sherlock measure his various outputs, assuring him it was equal to what had gone in. Although it had been days since John had been feverish, Sherlock was constantly offering to retrieve more blankets for him, and any time John shifted, Sherlock was there to adjust his pillows. He’d dim the lights as soon as John started to doze off, and on more than one occasion hissed at the nurses for being too loud when John was sleeping. He’d even taken to laying in the bed situated next to John’s at night, although John wasn’t sure how much sleep he was actually getting.

All the uncharacteristic mother-hen behavior would be endearing if John didn’t know it was a result of Sherlock witnessing his near death. Still, John would be lying if he didn’t admit the attention meant something to him; it was incontrovertible proof that he was important to Sherlock. He, John Watson, was valued enough to incite emotion in a man who would claim to his dying breath that he had none. To an outsider, Sherlock’s behavior may have even seemed to border on affection, although John knew better. Even though Sherlock may never feel the same level of fondness John had for him, it was more than John ever imagined he’d get to witness. Maybe this was the closest Sherlock got to love, and John was honored to be on the receiving end.

They struggled to find ways to kill the time in between blood tests, breathing treatments designed to prevent John’s lungs from becoming congested after being intubated for so long, the occasional check-up imaging, and physical therapy. Sherlock read the newspaper to John, but didn’t add much in the way of commentary like he normally would. They played board games Angela had found in the common room, but after John beat Sherlock in Cludeo three times, and at chess twice, John was too unsettled to play anymore. It was obvious Sherlock’s mind was elsewhere.

The only adequate distraction came in the form of a marathon of _The X-Files_ which they watched on an old tube TV that Lieutenant Carlton had commandeered. Sherlock had been captivated, oscillating between scoffing at Mulder’s outrageous paranormal theories and paranoid delusions and then yelling defense on Mulder's behalf at Agent Scully.

"How many times must she see proof of extraterrestrial life with her own eyes before she believes?" He'd exclaimed more than once.

“It’s just a show, Sherlock,” John laughed. “Science fiction. _Fiction.”_

“She claims to be a woman of science, yet doesn’t understand — once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable —”  

“Must be the truth,” John finished. “Yes, I know. And _the truth is out there._ But if she just agreed it was aliens every time, it wouldn’t make for very good telly, would it?”

It was the most animated Sherlock had been in days, so John tolerated it, and was even able to doze through the snarky criticism, but eventually Sherlock hit his limit. The familiar intro music had just finished playing for the umpteenth time, and John cracked his eyes open to see the title card flash ALL LIES LEAD TO THE TRUTH instead of the typical THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. Sherlock recoiled a little, then stood and hit the power button hard enough to rock the TV on the shoddy equipment cart it sat on.

“I feel like my brain is rotting,” he growled, then stalked off to use the loo, leaving John staring at the darkened screen, suddenly feeling very awake.

There had been no more telly after that. John passed the last day at Baskerville sharing war stories with Lieutenant Carlton and reading a Michael Crichton novel he’d had in his bag, while Sherlock thumbed through some cold case files Lestrade had faxed over.

When Doctor Stapleton finally announced they could go home, John felt like he’d won the lottery. Sherlock looked like he’d be the one paying the prize money.

Now, back at Baker Street, John vehemently dismissed the offer to be transported up to the flat on the stretcher, but allowed the medics to help him sit up and climb down off the rig. Sherlock gathered their bags and guided John to the kerb, steadying hand at John’s bicep.

Two-two-one was a sight for sore eyes. John looked up at the building, revelling in being home, and saw Mrs Hudson waiting in the doorway, one hand at her heart, the other hovering over her lips. Her eyes were full of worry as she took in the ambulance and the fragile man being led from it. John gave her a sheepish grin as they approached.

The stairs up to their flat had never felt endless like this, and not even being half-carried up them by two burly paramedics prevented him from wheezing in exhaustion once they finally stood on the upstairs landing. The last few discharge papers were signed in the kitchen, and the transport team finally left.

It had been more than two weeks since they’d boarded a train to Devon to chase down Henry Knight’s mysterious hound. Sherlock admitted Mrs Hudson had been updated to their whereabouts vaguely and sporadically, and had only recently been informed John was in hospital with a severe strain of H1N1.

“Oh, John,” she said with a mixture of relief and worry, her thin arms encircling him warmly – she had followed them upstairs. “I was so worried, with you boys being gone for so long, and no news. Then Sherlock called and told me you’ve been in hospital, and with _the swine flu!”_ She dropped her voice at the last words, conspiratorially. “You poor dear, it’s just dreadful!”

“I’m feeling much better now, Mrs H,” he said, pulling back to give her a reassuring smile. “They said I was alright to come home as long as I took it easy.”

She gave Sherlock a hug as well, which he returned with a warmth he reserved only for her.

“You should have called me straight away, Sherlock,” she chided. “I would have come out to help. I could have brought you your things and sat with John to give you a rest.”

“That’s really kind of you, but Devon is so far, and it wasn’t all that bad,” John lied. “They just wanted to take precautions, with the way this strain spreads. I wouldn’t have wanted to pass it on to you. Luckily Sherlock didn’t catch it, and he looked after me.”

“Well, I suppose you couldn’t have been in better hands than you were with Sherlock.”

John smiled but Sherlock just winced and looked morose.

Mrs Hudson frowned. “Do they know how you caught it, John? Something you touched, or was it just in the air? Were many other people in the area sick, too? Like some kind of outbreak? There was nothing about it on the news or in the papers.”

Sherlock frowned and huffed impatiently. “Mrs Hudson, it was a hatefully long ride, and John is due for his medication.”

“And a trip to the loo,” John finished, much more amiably.

Impervious to Sherlock’s stroppy tone, Mrs Hudson nodded. “Of course, dear. I’ll help you get settled. How about some tea? My welcome home treat.”

“Tea would be great, ta.” John eased off his jacket and Sherlock hung it on its hook by the door. It had been thoroughly cleaned when he’d gotten it back, and still smelled of pungent decontaminants, but John was grateful it hadn’t been cut up like the rest of his clothes.

He decided he would rest on the couch for a bit and attempt the second flight to his room later. Sherlock followed closely behind as he moved around the sitting room as though expecting him to have a stumble. John waved him off and headed down the hall to use the bathroom first. “Good to be home,” he murmured as he made his way through the kitchen.

In the loo, he was surprised to find himself eyeing the shower almost hungrily. He longed to wash away the last remnants of Baskerville and his illness, to feel like it was finally behind them. He’d showered at the base, but a military medical shower was nothing compared to the comforts of home: the familiar spray of their showerhead, the luxury of non-medical grade soap and shampoo, a soft towel and his own dressing gown.

Maybe after tea.

Mrs Hudson was flitting around the kitchen when he emerged, arranging John’s favorite biscuits on a plate. “I took the liberty of cleaning your flat — because of the special circumstances, you know. I gave everything a good, deep scrub with Domestos, washed all the bedding and towels, and cleaned out your fridge. The state it was in!”

John saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he tried to remember what oddities might have been in there when they’d departed. Mrs Hudson pursed her lips and shot Sherlock a reprimanding look. “Ms Hooper was nice enough to come by and retrieve the stomach yesterday. It was quite bloated by the time I found it, Sherlock,” she said with revulsion. “You’re lucky it didn’t burst on me.”

Sherlock’s head snapped to look at the fridge and his mouth fell open in alarm. He whipped out his phone and started texting hastily. With an audible whoosh, he sent the message.

“Problem?” John asked, eyes flicking between Mrs Hudson, who was busy making tea, and Sherlock, who was staring at his mobile in trepidation, waiting.

“Possibly,” Sherlock muttered.

A moment later, his shoulders slumped in relief at a reply to his text. He let out a breath and looked up to see John still watching him and straightened his back defensively. “It may have contained … a few … batteries.”

“The stomach? You had a _stomach full of batteries in our fridge?”_

“I was testing the speed of stomach acid corrosion on the outer casing … look, it’s not important. I just had to make sure Molly didn’t incinerate it with the rest of the medical waste. Could have been … explosive. Luckily she knew to look and retrieved them first.”

John shook his head and toed off his shoes, putting his legs up on the sofa and laying back. He couldn’t help but smile. It was all at once macabre and bizarre and hilarious. It was _home._

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed in astatic haze. John slept late and still inevitably fell asleep again mid-afternoon. A local contact of Dr Stapleton’s popped by for a daily home visit, but these were short since John required little medical assistance besides paracetamol and rest. They ventured out of the house twice, once down to Speedy’s for toasties and a few days later for a walk around the block that thoroughly wore John out. He had orders to avoid heavily populated places for the next few weeks, both as a safety measure for the public in the off-chance John still had any possibility of infecting others with the illness, but moreover as a precaution for John and his still weakened immune system.

The exhaustion was the last symptom that seemed determined to hang on, delaying John’s recovery longer than it would be with a more common flu or cold. Still, every day John felt stronger, stayed awake longer, and did more around the flat. Sherlock busied himself with small experiments in the kitchen, ready to drop everything at John’s beck and call. He made tea, made sure John ate, and did the washing up. There was a strange heaviness about him sometimes, conflict in his eyes when John would catch him staring from across the room, or into the middle distance.

They’d been home a week when things took an unexpected turn. As had become his new habit, John nodded off on the sofa after lunch. When he woke, the flat was almost dark, the warm glow of fading daylight casting long shadows over the sitting room. The soft wool blanket that usually adorned the back of his chair had been carefully tucked around him, and a mug of tea sat cooling on the table at his side. John sniffed and sat up, arching his back and stretching his shoulders.

He rubbed a hand over his face, noting the stubble, and decided that now was a good time to wash up. Maybe Sherlock had had the same idea. John listened for the hum of the shower and was surprised to hear low voices instead, hushed but tense.

His eyes landed on a familiar umbrella leaning against the wall in the landing.

Mycroft was here.

John stood and walked toward the kitchen. Sherlock’s door was closed, but light spilled from beneath it. John felt momentarily embarrassed for falling asleep in the sitting room and forcing Sherlock to entertain his brother in his bedroom — a sanctum he rarely allowed others into. He could imagine how peeved Sherlock must be, and wished they’d just woken him instead.

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, he just didn’t want to interrupt, and was waiting for a break in the conversation to announce himself. But he could make out some of the words now, anyway.

“So what am I to do with this?” Sherlock grumbled.

“It’s the official record of the past two weeks.”

“Ninety percent of it is redacted. What’s the point?”

“I wanted to make sure you were kept informed of the official story. H1N1, as we discussed. A particularly virulent strain that resulted in medical emergency and Doctor Watson’s near death. The other details of the situation, including everything that occurred outside of the medical unit, have been eliminated, and all involved parties debriefed as such. What you choose to do with the _actual_ facts within the walls of this flat is your choice, but there will be no official record of what transpired when Doctor Watson was initially … indisposed.”

Sherlock’s reply was quiet, resigned. “I can’t keep it from him. He deserves to know. At some point.”

“You spent days at the base with him, just trying to while away the hours. I’m sure you could have passed quite a bit of that time discussing —”

“It wasn’t the _right_ time. His heart _failed,_ Mycroft. He died right in front of me, in case you’ve forgotten, because _I_ never will. Even now … he’s slept more than half the day today. He’s still recovering. Why should I add undue stress?”

“I don’t think _his_ heart is the only one you’re protecting by delaying this conversation, Sherlock. The longer you wait, the worse it will be. You could easily spare yourself all this woe. No harm was done to anyone, in the end. Greg is sworn to secrecy, officially and unofficially. If you don’t want to tell John, it’ll make no difference. He’ll never find out.”

“But what if he starts remembering?

John’s mind spun. People had been debriefed, sworn to secrecy. _No harm was done to anyone, in the end?_ John felt like he had definitely suffered a bit of harm, so … what on Earth were they talking about? It didn’t surprise John that the whole thing was being struck from government files, but why would such a thing bother Sherlock so much?

Was there something else that was still troubling him, and was it connected to whatever secret they were guarding from the one person who had nearly lost his life as a consequence?

_What on Earth had happened to him?_

John was, at once, frightened and angry. He’d _known_ something was off. The odd interrogation questions when he’d woken, the strange tests, the timeline that didn’t quite make sense, with two more days missing than John could account for with the details he’d cobbled together. He was tempted to charge into the room then and there. Perhaps he might catch the brothers off-guard enough to get some real answers. If it had been Sherlock alone, John might have had a chance, but Mycroft was the wild card. If anyone could deceive, avoid, and manipulate any conversation, it was the man who spoke riddles and abstracts like a second language and had carved a career out of using secrets as political currency.

No. Best to wait until Sherlock was alone.

Shuffling noises from behind the door shook John from his thoughts.

“Do keep me posted. My guest room is always available to you, should the two of you require some … _space._ ” There was a pause, and John knew Mycroft was waiting for Sherlock’s biting retort, but none came. “I’ve a meeting with the princess of Liechtenstein tomorrow …”

John needed more time to think, but they’d be through the door any moment now. He hurried back to the sitting room as quickly and quietly as he could, and lay back down on the sofa with his back to the room, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

Two sets of soft footsteps drew near, then descended the stairs as Sherlock saw Mycroft out.

When Sherlock returned, John could sense him standing beside the couch. Whether he was just watching John, or debating within himself about waking him up, or something else entirely was unclear, but John tried to keep his breathing steady and his eyes closed. Finally, a gentle hand squeezed his shoulder, then shook him gently.

“John,” Sherlock murmured. “John. I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s time for your pills, and you should really eat something. Or, at least move upstairs to your bed where you’ll be more comfortable. Your neck is going to hate you tomorrow.”

John sighed and feigned waking, rolling over blearily and sitting up again like he had done for real a few minutes prior. Sherlock smiled apologetically. He looked so tired himself. John resisted the urge to call him out, admit what he’d heard and demand answers, but he didn’t want to be brushed off again.

If Mycroft had given Sherlock an “official record” of what had happened at Baskerville, it was possible Sherlock still had it. John needed to find it. He was done asking questions that fell on deaf ears, begging for answers which never came. If Sherlock wouldn’t tell him, John would find out for himself. He needed to get Sherlock out of the flat so he could look.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked, picking up John’s cold mug of tea and taking it back to the kitchen. He poured it out in the sink, rinsed the cup, filled the kettle and put it back on to boil.

“Ravenous,” John lied. His appetite had been dismal at best. He’d lost almost six pounds over the course of his illness, and had been sticking to soup, porridge, and toast since they’d been home.

“What about the curry shop with the garlic naan you like?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You’re feeling up to that? It’s a bit spicy and it always takes them ages to get it ready.”

“Yeah, I woke up with a craving for beef korma.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said, caught between relief that John had an appetite and apprehension at his meal choice.

“If you want to get a head start, I’ll call it in,” John said, doing the math. It was an eight minute walk (seven for Sherlock and his long legs), and the chef was notorious for slow preparation. If John waited to ring the shop until Sherlock was almost there he’d buy himself almost ten more minutes, at least fifteen while the food was being prepared, and then another seven for the walk back.

Sherlock checked his pocket for his wallet. “Chicken biryani for me. Oh, and lentil dahl.” He looked around the room for his keys. “Shall I put the kettle on before I go?” he asked, tipping his head toward the kitchen.

John nodded. “I’ll get it.”

Sherlock nodded and headed down the stairs. John surreptitiously watched from the window as he left the flat, heading across the street and down the block. When he was sure the coast was clear, he wasted no time.

Fear gripped John as the weight of the situation settled over him. What would John find within the file? What had really happened at Baskerville? Was he still sick? Were there lasting effects they hadn’t told him about? Was it information on other people who’d had the same illness? Had there been others with him in the medical ward who hadn’t survived? How had he been infected?

John surveyed Sherlock’s room, trying to think like his flatmate would. He’d only been in Sherlock’s room a small handful of times: to help Sherlock when Irene had drugged him, and on a few occasions due to particularly nasty injuries that needed tending. For the most part, their bedrooms remained private.

So, where would a genius hide a file?

John walked over to Sherlock’s bookcase, looking for any disturbance in the thin layer of dust there, just like Sherlock had taught him to. There was nothing obvious there except for the fact that Mrs Hudson had recently dusted. John gently nudged the books apart, then ran his hand along the tops of them, feeling the line of hard covers and the wide swaths of paper between. Nothing had been slipped between the volumes or laid on top. He checked the shelves filled with curios, but there were few hiding spots, and most of the trinkets were too small to shield papers or a folder of any kind.

He gently lifted Sherlock’s pillows, then dropped to his knees to look under the bed, and ran his hand between the mattress and box spring. Nothing. Carefully lifted the periodic table poster away from the wall, feeling along the backing, but it was only smooth particle board.

Sherlock had walked straight out of the flat with Mycroft, he wouldn’t have left it out in the kitchen for John to see. Maybe Mycroft had taken it back with him after all.

John ran a frustrated hand through his hair and looked at his watch. He pulled out his mobile and called in their takeaway order, even though his appetite was nonexistent now, replaced by anxiety and anger. So much time had already passed. If there was anything to find, he had to find it soon.

He’d need to channel Sherlock to outsmart him. John tried to clear his mind and think about the situation like Sherlock would.

In all likelihood, Sherlock didn’t know John had overheard his conversation with Mycroft. Would he really think it urgent to hide the file at all? And, even if he had wanted to do so, he wouldn’t have had time for that as Mycroft left — Sherlock would never have revealed one of his hiding spots to his brother. He showed Mycroft to the door, then came back to the flat, spoke with John, and went to get their dinner, all without going back to his bedroom.

It seemed oddly clear now. He’d been overthinking it. John stepped forward, surveyed Sherlock’s nightstand with narrowed eyes, and pulled open the drawer, revealing a manila envelope, its corner stamped with a government seal and the word CLASSIFIED glaring at him from the cover.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long hiatus and thank you all so much for your kind words, comments, and patience with me. I am so excited to be back to finish this story - only one chapter left after this one! 
> 
> As always, eternal thanks to hotshoeagain, J_Baillier, and Fellshish. I am forever indebted to them for all their hard work helping me make this story everything I have wanted it to be.

It was well past dark by the time Sherlock headed back to the flat with the food, the cold spring air providing extra motivation to walk briskly. He hadn’t ventured out alone much since they’d returned home, uneasy about leaving John on his own for long. Still, it was a relief to walk the city streets again, to feel the ebb and flow of London around him after so many days spent cooped up in the windowless medical unit at Baskerville, and now the walls of 221B.

Sherlock had remained steadfast in his role as caretaker, despite John’s best efforts to insist that he didn’t really need looking after anymore. To Sherlock, it was obvious that his body was still very much in repair. John spent a large portion of the day napping, and on the two occasions he’d felt energetic enough to leave the flat, their short excursions had thoroughly worn him out. He’d fallen asleep within minutes after returning from Speedy’s, and the walk round the block after lunch two days later had knocked him out until dinner.

So, Sherlock hovered close by and made sure water, tea, and paracetamol were always at the ready. He’d maintained a mental inventory of when John ate and slept and used the bathroom. He’d paid close attention for any sign of relapse or residual impairments, and he relayed all the information to the doctor that had been stopping by daily as well as dropping frequent email updates to Doctor Stapleton for good measure.

The most disturbing reminders that John had been ill consisted of lingering bruises from the chest compressions and headaches (which John classified as irritating but not debilitating). Nothing that Nurofen and sleep couldn’t fix, and as the week had gone on, Sherlock _had_ noted improvements. But every element of this virus had been a wildcard, and Sherlock didn’t want to let his guard down. He still felt on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for another seizure… or worse.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to emerge from this whole ordeal healthy and whole. Unscathed. He’d felt the pain, however brief, of losing John completely, and his cursed eidetic memory tormented him by replaying the scene in his dreams; the shrill piercing alarm announcing John’s heart was failing, his lifeless hand twitching with each downward thrust of CPR, and the way he’d arched off the bed as electricity shot through him. Disturbing dreams persisted in the form of landmine explosions and dark, wet bogs, low-flying helicopters and electron-microscope printouts, loose rocks under John’s brown leather shoes and a shirt-front stained with blood.

It would all be Sherlock’s cross to bear; a deserved torture, remembering every detail of those few days. The feelings of helplessness and fear, the sensation of teetering on the precipice, staring into an endless chasm of agonizing blackness. Visions of a future that didn’t include John Watson. It haunted him. Even in the daytime it was there like a defiant shadow in the light, holding tight and reminding him of all he could have lost.

And all he was still going to lose, eventually, when John learned the truth. But, at least John was alive.

Mycroft’s voice echoed in Sherlock’s mind. _“If you don’t want to tell John, it’ll make no difference. He’ll never find out.”_ It was true, and it was tempting to conceal everything indefinitely, but if Sherlock hadn’t withheld information from John to begin with – hadn’t tricked him and locked him in the animal testing lab – none of this would have happened. He had to tell John the truth, and accept the consequences.

He tried to ignore the nausea that twisted in his belly. He really didn’t want to think about what would come after John inevitably moved out and cut all ties with him. It had been so long since he’d gone on a case alone. John’s unique insight into the medical and military fields had been helpful on countless occasions, as well as his ability to read people in ways that Sherlock couldn’t. John’s genuine concern for victims, and the gentle way he spoke to them had often yielded more information than Sherlock’s harsh interrogations. Although Sherlock could see the results were usually more favorable, he couldn’t seem to feign anything remotely near the same level of sympathy; John always seemed to know when he should step in as translator, softening the edges of Sherlock’s questions and delivering them more delicately. The idea of facing Donovan’s and Anderson’s scorn without someone to stand by him was equally exhausting and disheartening.

All in all, John’s importance to him had become so much more than just assisting with the work. It was having someone to share tea with, someone he could gripe to about Mycroft, someone to sit in silence or share a long conversation with. It was a gentle touch and a concerned eye; deft fingers patching him up after a scuffle. It was a warm dinner placed in front of him when he hadn’t eaten in days, cooked by someone keeping better track of just how many days than he did. It was the racing adrenaline and the words exchanged with a glance, the mixed laundry, two mugs drying in the dishrack. It was the familiarity of knowing the minutiae about someone else without realizing he knew it: that John always sneezed in threes, the particular rhythmic staccato when he typed, and that he preferred bananas that still had a tinge of green in the stalk.

There was also the quiet longing, the lingering fantasy that there might be something more between them one day. Or, that there might have been, before they’d gone to Dartmoor.

Silly that he’d ever even indulged in imagining such a thing. Sherlock barely had colleagues, and really _didn’t_ have friends; he only had John. To imagine they’d be anything beyond friends and flatmates was really just a pipe dream, and one that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to entertain for much longer. Once John left, he’d be alone until his dying days.

Suddenly the average lifespan of adult males seemed outrageously long. Well, once John was gone, no one would stop him from going back to old vices if he chose to. That might speed things up.

This was his hairshirt to wear.

Really, Sherlock tried to convince himself, this was for the better. John would be safe, free to pursue a normal life, find a wife, settle into suburban bliss. His biggest worries would be loud neighbours, and the inconvenience of road construction on his route to work, and keeping his cholesterol levels low. No more Semtex bombs, or Chinese gangs, or dangerous dominatrixes.

_“Leave him alone, Woman. He’s mine.”_

Sherlock’s heart twinged in his chest. But really, how could he put any stock in that? John had been hallucinating when he said it, after all.

Rounding the corner on Baker Street, Sherlock tried to put the whole mess out of his mind. He still had time. John was still healing, and no longer seemed to suspect anything was amiss. No need to rush the inevitable.

Sherlock decided to relish these last few days with John, and to use them to work out exactly how to explain the sordid truth to him once he was well again.

 

* * *

 

The flat was still and silent when Sherlock entered. Usually at this time of the night, John would have the evening news on the telly, and Sherlock had hoped he’d be pottering about after his nap, maybe getting the table set. But, it was quiet, the second floor dark, and the first floor only dimly lit by the under-cabinet lighting in the kitchen and a small lamp on the desk.

“John?”

Trying not to panic, Sherlock dropped the bags on the kitchen table and looked down the hall. The door to the bathroom was open, lights off. Next, he ducked into the sitting room. The sofa was set back to rights, blanket folded, pillows arranged neatly. For all intents and purposes, the flat seemed empty.

Sherlock’s heart started to pound. What if John had relapsed or had a dissociative episode? He could be hallucinating, running terrified through the streets of London right now. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and he called out louder now, not even trying to hide the fear that trembled in his voice: “John? John?!”

He jumped when John cleared his throat. A familiar head of short, golden hair sat in the armchair by the cold fireplace.

Relief flooded through him and he quickly schooled his voice to nonchalance. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Sherlock said, flicking on another lamp. “I’ve got dinner if you’re still hungry. Sorry it took so long, there was some ridiculous delay with our order.”

John didn’t move and he didn’t answer. “John?” Sherlock said gently, moving toward the fireplace. “Are you alright?” He was surprised to find John’s expression hard as stone, his jaw clenched tight.

In his hand, he clutched the folder Sherlock had seen barely an hour before.

_The classified file from Mycroft._

His stomach plummeted.

When John’s finally spoke, his voice was somewhere between a whisper and a growl. The words were slow and halting as he glared into the middle distance, refusing to make eye contact. “What. Is. _This_?”

Sherlock hadn’t prepared for the possibility that he wouldn’t be in control of the proceedings when John found out all this. He had assumed there’d be time to plan what he had to say, to prepare himself for John’s reactions and to build a wall around his own. “I can explain —”

John stood and spun to face him. “Bloody right you’re going to explain! I’ve been asking you to explain since I woke up days ago. You and everyone else. And you all lied to me — made me feel like I was the crazy one — but I knew. I _knew_ there was more to it _._ What _is_ all of this?” John punctuated the question by pulling out a sheaf of pages covered in thick black marker streaks, paragraphs and paragraphs redacted from the official story.

Sherlock found himself at a loss for words. “I … I thought it best to wait until you’d fully recovered, I —”

“Was I some sort of an _experiment?”_

Sherlock flinched before he could stop himself. John paled, eyes wide as his mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. “What did they do to me?”

“They didn’t,” Sherlock rasped, words thick in his throat. He swallowed hard, staring at the floor for a moment before he raising his eyes to look at John. His voice was barely a whisper. _“I_ did.”

It felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. Yet, Sherlock felt an odd sense of peace wash over him. He was a man at the gallows, and his moment of execution had come. Any moment now, the floor would drop. Sherlock hoped it would be over quickly, but either way, it was done. The secret was out, a moment he’d been dreading for so long finally upon him.

John blinked rapidly and licked his lips before he managed a quiet, tremulous, “What?”

Sherlock bit his lip. Was it worth it to spend his final moments pleading his case? Or should he accept his fate like an adult?

“I didn’t know, John. _I didn’t know._ I thought that the drug was in the sugar.”

John’s expression went from horrified to confused. “Yes, Sherlock. I know. We talked about that, I know. You thought it was in the sugar and you put the sugar in my coffee, but it was in the gas — ”

“When I trapped you in the lab, I didn’t _know_ about the gas. We only found out after… what you inhaled in the airlocked lab wasn’t just the HOUND gas, John. It was an airborne HOUND virus. Frankland was working on it in secret, weaponizing it to sell to terrorists.”

“Jesus,” John whispered, shaking his head minutely as the information sunk in. In a daze, he sat back in his armchair again.

Feeling an urgency to fill the heavy silence growing like a chasm between them, Sherlock couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of him. “I had no idea, John. I _swear_ to you, if I had even the vaguest notion, I never would have…”

John finally looked up at him, but where Sherlock expected fury or disgust, he only found dark resignation and a hint of something else … sympathy?

After a moment, John rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. He suddenly looked very, very tired. He motioned with his head for Sherlock to sit. “You’re going to tell me the whole story, from the beginning. The complete, unfiltered truth, and so help me _God,_ if I find out you are lying or keeping _anything_ from me, we’re going to Mycroft’s office _right now_ to look at the original version of _this,”_ he said, holding up the file again.

Sherlock swallowed hard and sat. “I was going to tell you, I just … I thought it best to wait until you were more fully recovered —”

 _“You_ thought it _best?”_ John repeated incredulously. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me, Sherlock. I’m a grown man. Whatever you think you’re protecting me from, I can handle it. I deserve to know.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, chastened. Although it felt unnerving to sit, he moved to his chair and sat on the edge, leaning toward John, who stared back, fingers curled tight around the arms of his chair. “From the beginning,” he ordered.

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself and casting away the emotions he couldn’t allow to cloud this moment.

Unable to make eye contact, Sherlock stared at the patterns woven into the rug at John’s feet as he detailed John’s initial hallucinations: the EKG confused for a bomb, the medical ward that transformed into another swimming pool locker room. He stuck to facts, but in his mind he could still see the terror in John’s eyes as he held Doctor Stapleton against him, arm locked tightly around her throat. Trapped in a waking nightmare where he was once again a pawn in Moriarty’s sick game, unable to see what and who really surrounded him.

Pausing for a moment, Sherlock forced himself to look up. John’s mouth hung open in shock, and his eyebrows were pulled together in a frown as he tried to absorb all the startling new information.

Sherlock dropped his eyes again and continued.

“You didn’t recognize your surroundings, or any of us — not Doctor Stapleton, not Lestrade, not Henry, or Lieutenant Carlton, or even _me_. You… ” Sherlock paused and swallowed, already exhausted and knowing he was only just beginning to tell this wretched tale. “You had _no idea,_ John, you truly believed what you were seeing was real. You were hallucinating. It wasn’t your fault — ”

John’s eyes were wide with alarm, and his voice was strained as he tried to keep it level. “Stop beating around the bush, Sherlock. What did I do?”

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. “Doctor Stapleton found you first. You wanted her to disconnect the EKG, and the commotion alerted the rest of us. When you saw us, you panicked and … used her for leverage.”

“I held her _hostage?”_ John said shakily. “Oh my god, did I hurt her? What did I — ”

“She was _fine._ You didn’t hurt her. You thought you were cornered, and you did the only thing you could think of to get out. There was no lasting damage from the headlock —”

“The _headlock?_ Jesus.” John’s shoulders slumped. “No wonder she was so afraid of me during questioning.”

“She recovered quickly once we were all in the closet  —”

“The closet?”

“You locked us in a utility closet so you would have time to get away.”

“On a base like Baskerville? I couldn’t have gotten very far.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “You snuck into the flatbed of a supplies truck. By the time we were released and the alarms sounded, you had made it through the gates. _Just_ through them. Suspecting you had stowed away, they stopped the truck to check, and you ran.” His stomach twisted as he remembered what came next, the vivid details forever carved into his memory with the sharp knife of terror. The memory of John sprinting through tall grasses studded with landmines, overlapped with the memory of the blinding fireball that killed Doctor Frankland mere meters away. Panic started to creep in around the edges of Sherlock’s mind, his lungs suddenly struggling to pull in the breath his racing heart demanded.

Perhaps John was steeling himself for whatever horror he knew was coming, but he still stayed quiet, scrutinizing Sherlock, waiting for him to continue.

“You … you ran toward the forest. You were too fast. They couldn’t stop you before you got to — ”

“The minefield.” John finished in a whisper. He looked like he was going to be sick. Sherlock felt the same. He struggled to find words to mitigate the damage, attempting nonchalance and failing.

“Really, John. It’s of no consequence. Obviously you were fine in the end —”

“Did anyone go in after me? Did you — oh my God, you didn’t —”

“I couldn’t. I, along with most of the rest of the base, were trapped inside the barriers. No one could get to you in time. I _couldn’t_ — ” Sherlock clenched his jaw as emotions coiled in his throat, and furiously blinked away the blurriness in his eyes. Even now, the memory of how John tore through the grass was in slow motion, the terror that had gripped him seeping in again like poison.

He looked up at John to find his expression a mix of horror and worry. He knew he was making a mess of things – allowing emotion to get the better of him, letting it leak out into his actions, affecting his body in ways he couldn’t control. His hands were shaking, his heart racing, he felt hot and sweaty. The stoic façade he’d always been proud of was in shambles now. The only way to stop the physical reactions was to stop _feeling,_ but it was like trying to put a plaster on a severed limb — the emotions provoked by the memories were too strong, and they were flooding in too fast to staunch the flow.

That something as inane as _remembering_ could reduce him to such a pathetic mess was shameful, but he had no idea how to calm himself now, stuck in unfamiliar territory so far beyond his normal limits. All he could do was to inhale deeply through his nose and continue on.

John sat still and silent as Sherlock told him the rest: described the actions of the search and rescue team, Sherlock’s tumble into the swamp, Doctor Stapleton’s discovery of Frankland’s virus, and John’s inexplicable vanishing act at the river, which caused the search to shift to a body recovery before Mycroft got involved. He told John of the GPS tracker app on his phone (which elicited an unamused grunt), and the chase through the dark woods to the cliff. He didn’t mention how the rocks had tumbled over the edge at John’s heels, or the way he’d collapsed in Sherlock’s arms when the fog lifted and he finally saw a friend instead of foe.

In fact, he abbreviated a great many vivid details, sticking to simple facts: the fever radiating off of John as he huddled, small and frail, against Sherlock who had gently wiped away the remnants of another nosebleed as they waited for rescue became ‘ _we took shelter in a cave so you could rest.’_ John’s panic and terror as he was tackled to the ground in the forest, and the look of betrayal in his eyes when Sherlock allowed the medics to sedate him became ‘ _you were disoriented and afraid so they gave you something to help with the anxiety.’_

He couldn’t imagine seeing that expression on John’s face again, haunted, terrified, and accusatory as he watched Sherlock betray him. But, John’s expression was mostly unreadable when Sherlock dared glance up. His eyebrows pulled together above stormy eyes, but it wasn’t easily recognisable anger, or fear, or disgust, or betrayal. Perhaps it was a combination of all of them, or perhaps some emotion Sherlock wasn’t even familiar with.

By the time Sherlock reached the part of the story where John woke up at Baskerville, he had never felt so exhausted, spent by the emotions that he’d been wrestling to hold back as he recounted the whole ordeal. He sat penitent, head bowed, risking glances at John every few moments, but John just sat quietly, blinking at his knees and clenching his teeth. Finally, after the heavy silence felt like it had stretched an hour, John inhaled and stood quickly.

“I need some air,” he said flatly, not looking at Sherlock as he strode toward the door.

Alarmed, Sherlock looked at his watch. It was almost 10 o’clock, and John hadn’t eaten much all day. It was definitely cold outside now, and John looked so tired. Sherlock knew the ground he was treading on was shaky at best, but couldn’t stop himself from following John out to the landing and down the stairs.

“John, wait — it’s getting late —”

John didn’t stop; in fact, he seemed to speed up, feet pounding down the steps as he headed for the street. “I’m a grown man, Sherlock. I can go out any time I please,” he snarled over his shoulder, not even pausing in the foyer as he grabbed his jacket, throwing the front door open.

Sherlock caught it before it hit him in the face and pulled it closed it behind them, watching helplessly for a moment as John headed down the street, pulling his coat on without missing a step.

The streets were mostly empty, dim sodium street lights softening the shadows in warm orange tones that did nothing to banish the chill. John shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the breeze.

Sherlock started to jog after him but stopped when he realized he wasn’t following John anymore, he was _chasing_ him now. He couldn’t let him leave like this, off into the frigid darkness while he was still so vulnerable.

“John, wait!” Sherlock yelled desperately, but John kept walking. _“Please!”_

At the rare plea, John slowed to a stop, tense as a livewire. His head dropped between his heaving shoulders.

 _“I’ll_ go,” Sherlock called across the distance. “I can … I can pack a bag, be gone in a few minutes. Give you time — as much time as you need to recover and find a new flat —”

John’s head snapped up and he turned to stare at Sherlock, bewildered. “What?” He let out a deep sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. A taxi drove past, and his eyes followed it for a moment before he shook his head, then walked back to where Sherlock was standing.

“I’m not moving out, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hung his head and nodded. “I’m sorry, you’re right. You … you should keep the flat, it’s only fair under the circumstances. I’ll find somewhere new, I can —”

“No,” John said, and huffed out a sound just shy of a laugh. “No, I mean… I’m just going for a bloody walk. I’m not leaving for good. No one is changing flats.”

“But, you’re _angry_.”

John’s expression darkened. “Of course I’m bloody angry! I think I have every right to be! And, it’s more than that. It’s… Jesus, Sherlock.” He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, and lowered his voice from the shout it had become. “I just found out I held a woman hostage, almost blew myself up in a minefield, put loads of people in danger hunting for me in the fucking woods… And then, on top of it, I almost died twice because of some wanker who thought tinkering with biological warfare was a good way to pad his retirement savings! You’ve had weeks to process all of this, and I’m just finding out now. I don’t remember any of it, not one bit. I just … I need time to think.”

He turned away to face the street, hands on his hips. For a moment, Sherlock thought John would walk away again, but after a moment he spoke, eyes fixed on the kerb.

“I’m a military veteran with PTSD, and with that diagnosis … I’ve always been afraid I’d become a danger to others. I’ve watched it happen to good guys — smart, upstanding men who came home and went starkers. Hitting their wives, having dissociative episodes at Tesco. Two of them are living on the street now, one is in jail for assaulting a traffic cop. And I thought, no, that’ll never happen to me, even though deep down I worried I was just fooling myself. And now …” He let out a shaky breath and pursed his lips, shuffling his feet as he composed himself. “I had a flashback at the field when Frankland stepped on that mine. I was back in Kandahar in a blink. It was _so real._ And now to find out I had another, thinking I was at the pool with Moriarty … that I attacked Doctor Stapleton, and could have seriously hurt, or even _killed_ her. Or someone else. I could have killed _you,_ Sherlock, and I wouldn’t have even _known_. I wouldn’t even _remember_ it now.”

Sherlock shook his head in confusion. “You were ill, John. It was all part of the effects of the virus. You can’t blame yourself for any of it. This wasn’t your PTSD, it was a chemical weapon that was made to prey on fear and incite violence. That you came into contact with it wasn’t your fault, _it was mine_. The only person to blame for any of this is _me.”_

John looked over at him and shook his head. “Sherlock, the only person to blame is Doctor _bloody_ Frankland. _”_

“If I hadn’t —”

“Sent me down to the lab, yes, I know. We’ve established that. And I’ve already forgiven you for it, at the inn.”

“You didn’t know you were ill then. I thought the effects had passed, because they had, for the rest of us. What I did to you is … it’s unforgivable. I knowingly put you in danger and it almost cost you your life. I could beg your forgiveness until my dying breath and it still wouldn’t be enough! So, I do not fault you if you no longer wish to remain flatmates. In fact, it’s the most prudent option, and one even _I_ must urge you to consider for your own safety.”

John nodded and bit his lip for a moment, contemplatively. He turned to face Speedy’s behind them. The doors were locked and the shop was dark, but Mister Chatterjee left the chairs upended on the tables outside. A side effect of having a local detective: even the pettiest crimes on their block had dropped as Sherlock Holmes became a celebrity. No one would dare steal the patio furniture that practically resided on their doorstep.

John took down two of the chairs and sat them right side up on either side of the table, facing the street. He gestured for Sherlock to have a seat.

They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the street, before John cleared his throat and took a deep breath. His voice was somber when he spoke. “When I came back from Afghanistan, I … I was so alone. I’d come from a place where every moment was lived on the edge, where every action had a purpose; a cause and effect. The men in my unit were like my family. I felt like I belonged, like what I was doing mattered. I went on missions. I saved lives. Every day was full of action and emotion and companionship. I was planning a career in the army, figured I’d happily live out my life in fatigues. Then, one bullet changed all of that for me. It took it all away.”

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, afraid that turning to face him would break the spell. John had never spoken openly about his time at war, and Sherlock had been raised with enough etiquette to know not to ask. He felt like he was holding his breath now as he listened, hanging on John’s every word. His eyes landed on John’s fingers, worrying along the pattern in the table, tracing and tapping idly as he talked.

“I was sent back here before I was ready. I had no friends or family to rely on. I had no purpose. I was in pain physically, emotionally. I felt worthless. I’d wake up from a nightmare of being trapped, unable to help my men, alone in my sad, tiny bedsit. I’d go to therapy a few times a week, and maybe go for a walk now and then. The only thing I felt when I managed to feel anything at all was overwhelming isolation and despair. I spent every waking hour wishing the sniper had been aiming just a little more to the right when he’d squeezed that trigger.”

Sherlock felt his own heart squeeze in his chest at the hateful thought.

“Nothing happened to me anymore,” John continued with a sigh. “Then … I met you. And, in the first day I knew you, you whisked me off to hunt down a murderer, chasing cabs through the streets of London and harassing tourists and putting yourself in mortal danger for the thrill of it, and suddenly … I felt the way I had in Afghanistan again. Smart and capable and useful. I wasn’t alone anymore. I knew, I … I belonged. I belonged with _you._ I woke up the morning after that first case able to look to the future without feeling dread for the first time since I’d come back to London. I had a purpose again.”

He sniffed and turned away, swiping at his eyes subtly. Sherlock pretended not to notice, and pretended even harder that he wasn’t feeling the tears he blinked away from his own eyes. After a moment John turned to face him, a gentle smile on his lips and something that could easily be mistaken for affection in his eyes.

“If I wanted a safe, predictable life, I wouldn’t have enlisted in the army, Sherlock, and I wouldn’t have been so easily lured to a crime scene with you by a threat of danger. I would have stayed in my pathetic bedsit instead of moving into 221B with you so that I can keep tagging along while you solve crimes. I don’t want safe or predictable. I want the life we have together. It’s the life I’ve very consciously chosen, and I’ve accepted the risks that come along with that. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He sniffed again and looked down at the table for a minute, thinking.

“I have a feeling I know the answer to this question already, because the only other time I’ve ever seen you so … affected was the night you thought you saw the hound, but I’ll ask anyway. Can you promise me, without a doubt, right now, that you’ll never, ever use me as a guinea pig ever again? No matter the circumstances, or how harmless you think the test is?”

 _“Never,”_ Sherlock agreed emphatically, heart pounding in his chest. “Never again. Until my dying breath I _promise_ you I’ll _never_ —”

John held up his hand. “Alright,” he smiled. “That’ll do.”

“That’ll … _do_?”

“Yeah, Sherlock. That’ll do. It’s obvious to me … the fact that you had to witness what happened to me was punishment enough. I know you pretend that you don’t have feelings, which I suspect is a bug Mycroft put in your ear at some point, but it’s obvious you do. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sherlock wanted to protest, wanted to insist he was a high-functioning sociopath. He just didn’t _need_ feelings — had done just fine without them for most of his life, in fact. It was only recently that he’d become weak enough to let sentiment worm its way in.

Mycroft’s words from Baskerville came back to him in a solemn echo. _“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. But, I was mistaken in that I assumed it was a disadvantage to be distracted by caring. For you and I, it’s worse for those we care for. What has our fondness done_ for _John or Greg? What could it do_ to _them? Obviously far worse things than you or I merely being preoccupied with sentiment.”_

“You’re definitely not a sociopath, Sherlock,” John said quietly, as if reading Sherlock’s mind. “There’s nothing wrong with friends caring about each other. If I’d had to watch _you_ go through the week _I_ apparently had, I wouldn’t be any better off. It’s not bad that you care about Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade, or me, or Mycroft.”

Sherlock huffed in defiance at that last name.

John just raised his eyebrows in challenge. “We all need people we can trust, and who trust us. It’s what makes us human. And, to be honest, Sherlock, that’s the worst part of this whole thing for me. I trusted you, and you kept this from me. This huge, life-altering event, and you decided I didn’t get to know the details.”

“I knew you wouldn’t react well, and you’re still recovering. I didn’t see the need to rush. I was trying to protect you,” Sherlock replied defensively.

“Protect me from what? My own emotions?” John shifted in his seat, leaning forward on the table between them, frustrated. “This is too big, Sherlock. No more secrets between us. I wouldn’t keep something so important from you.”

The words were out before Sherlock knew he was going to say them, tinged with indignant venom. “What was your motive, then, for telling me Irene Adler was in witness protection in America, if not to protect _my_ emotions?”

John’s jaw dropped in genuine surprise, and he floundered for a moment before Sherlock cut off any protest he might come up with.

“You didn’t want to tell me she was dead, because you thought I was in love with her. You wanted to spare me the grief. But, by your own logic, if you thought we were romantically involved, didn’t that make it a big enough _thing_ that I’d deserve to know? How is it any different in the end?”

Sherlock knew … it was no different. John had been trying to protect him from the heartbreak and grief of Irene’s death, despite his less than favorable feelings toward her. John had told him as much when he’d been delirious with fever.

_I just don’t like her._

But now John only bowed his head and sucked his teeth for a moment before he nodded remorsefully. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I … I should have told you.” He took a deep breath. “She was killed in —”

“She’s alive,” Sherlock interrupted. John’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, then narrowed just as quickly.

“What? How do you know —”

_You’re dead. Stop texting him. Ridiculous._

“She got herself into hot water. I helped get her out. You were away at that conference in Leeds, you never even knew I’d left the country,” Sherlock said.

“Oh,” John replied simply, stunned. He blinked and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, that’s … that’s good, then. Yeah, good. Is she … is she in London?” He was obviously trying his hardest to look earnestly happy for Sherlock, but his expression was the definition of a grimace. The lighthearted tone he had taken on came out fake and flat.

_Leave him alone, Woman. He’s mine._

Suddenly antsy, Sherlock stood and wrapped his arms around himself, feeling the chill of the night as the adrenaline that had been coursing through him all evening finally started to wear off. He wished he’d grabbed his own coat on the way out the door, but hadn’t wanted to stop the momentum of their conversation to go get it. Out here in the shadows, the hum of the city creeping in around the edges, it all felt more real. Sherlock wondered if they’d have been able to be so honest in the walls of their flat. His body itched for a cigarette.

John stood too. “Should we … go in then?” he asked after it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to be answering his previous question. Sherlock nodded absently and John placed their chairs back on the table while Sherlock fished out his keys and unlocked the door.

Steeling himself as he heard the door close behind them, he spun to face John in the dim light of the foyer. “Does it bother you?”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“That’s she’s alive,” Sherlock continued, even as warning bells started to go off in his mind. “Does it bother you?”

John laughed nervously, a shrill stutter. “What? Why would that bother me?”

Sherlock swallowed, his throat tight. The air was charged between them now, the tension of things left unsaid buzzing in a deafening hum. For a moment he had the irrational thought that John must be able to hear the thunderous beat of his heart against his ribs. So much was at stake now. Was John trembling, or just shivering because he was cold? He blinked up at Sherlock as his tongue darted out to lick his lips.

Sherlock moved closer, searching John’s eyes for a sign. Was it apprehension or anticipation he saw there? Temptation or dread?

He’d been so close to losing John so many times now. What if after all that had happened, _this_ was finally the last straw? They could continue on as they always had, friends and flatmates, side by side taking on the rest of the world. Was the possibility of more worth the risk of losing it all?

He’d been given a stay of execution. Why was he back on the platform again, looping the rope around his own neck? He should be running to safety, never looking back, appreciating what he had instead of pushing for more. Pushing John over the edge. Pushing the lever to drop the floor beneath them both.

But no. No more secrets. They were done keeping things from each other. Whether Sherlock was right or wrong, this was his truth, and John deserved to know.

Sherlock took a deep breath, closed the distance between them, and kissed him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologize for the outrageously long hiatus enough - between personal issues and some serious writer's block, this was definitely a laborious last chapter. It also marks the end of the first fic I ever wrote for this fandom, as well as the longest and most involved story I've ever written in my life. I sincerely appreciate all the support and comments, it has been such a wonderful journey and I am so grateful to all of you who took the time to read, kudos, and leave me a note.
> 
> Special thanks to my incredible betas hotshoeagain, J_Baillier, and special consultants Fellshish and shelleysprometheus for all the brainstorming and encouragement, and to Mr 88th for yelling at me almost daily to finish this fic already.

The kiss was gentle, almost chivalrous in its hesitance. John’s lips were soft and warm against Sherlock’s, who didn’t dare breathe. It seemed John was surprised, too — too stunned to move at all, in fact. He stood, solid as a statue, against Sherlock’s mouth.

The realization of what he’d just done — what he was _still_ doing — and the lack of response from John made icy tendrils of horror snake around Sherlock’s ribs. He moved back as suddenly as he’d lunged forward, and time stood still as he forced himself to meet John’s eyes.

John’s mouth hung open the slightest bit — in surprise or in preparation to speak? Sherlock had no way of knowing. There seemed to be countless unreadable emotions filling John’s wide eyes. _Regret? Pity? Betrayal? Disgust?_ Sherlock could barely manage all his own hateful human emotions, many long buried and some rather new. It was hard enough juggling and categorizing and controlling the mess of his own feelings, let alone deciphering John’s. The mask of stoicism and indifference Sherlock hid behind like second nature was impossible to conjure now, even as he grasped desperately for it. His emotions were on full display, released like plagues from Pandora’s box; his secret was out — he may as well have ripped his heart from his body and handed it to John, still warm and beating. He wished he could snatch it away, shove it back in his chest behind the walls that used to guard it. Did he even know how to rebuild those walls? Why hadn’t he realized they had crumbled?

What on earth had he been _thinking?_

“Sherlock,” John said in an exhale, barely a whisper, but it filled the air between them.

 _“I’m not actually gay,_ ” John had told him, repeatedly. Sherlock felt like he was suffocating. How could he have been so stupid? He wanted to flee, but John was blocking the door to the street. Sherlock dropped his eyes and tried to swallow around the thick lump in his throat.

“John, I —”

He hadn’t known what to say, what words were about to come from his own mouth, but suddenly it didn’t matter, because suddenly … suddenly John closed the distance between them, and his lips were pressed to Sherlock’s.

 _John_ was kissing him. John was kissing _him._ Sherlock hadn’t misread the signs. He had been prepared to apologize and deny — ready to run — but John was answering him in kind. It was hesitation and softness, a gentle warmth, an unspoken confession.

Sherlock’s mind went blank, caught in the surreality of the moment. John’s hands hovered before settling, feather-light, on Sherlock’s waist, and he melted into the embrace, somehow so intimate in its innocence. A shiver ran through him as John’s warmth chased away the cold night air that had settled deep in his bones.

John pulled away, and they stared at each other for a moment.

“I —”

“You —”

John huffed a nervous laugh but Sherlock found himself too awestruck to even smile.

“I thought you were married to your work,” John said bashfully.

Sherlock cringed at the foolishness of his own words from so long ago. It was almost impossible to believe how much had changed — how much _he_ had changed — since that first night at Angelo’s.

“Before you, all I _had_ was the work,” he said reverently. “I couldn’t imagine anything would ever be more important, because nothing ever _had_ been.”

“But Irene — ”

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered John’s threatening, delirious diatribe at Baskerville.

“Irene Adler is _gay,_ John,” Sherlock said gently, needing to put the matter to bed once and for all. “I believe she told you as much herself. She’s an intriguing intellectual sparring partner, but our undoubtedly unique relationship was never romantic or even erotic. I never wanted it to be.” He shook his head fondly. “She is gay _,_ and so, for the record, am I.”

John unconsciously licked his lips. “Oh,” he said, blinking. “That’s … that’s good. I, um … I never knew.”

‘ _Good’_ ? Sherlock frowned. _How is it ‘good’, suddenly?_ He  shrugged. “It never seemed relevant, since you’re _not actually gay,”_ he said, imitating the declaration John had made to Irene when Sherlock had been hiding in the shadows.

John nodded and bit his lip, unable to keep eye contact any longer. “I’m …” John rubbed the back of his neck and let out a deep breath through his nose, focusing on the floor. “Well, I guess… I’m… bisexual, then,” he finally managed, glancing up at Sherlock quickly before looking away again. “I’ve never really said it out loud like that before, but… yeah. I guess that’s… yeah.” He nodded again, decisively, biting the inside of his cheek, then straightened his back, and met Sherlock’s gaze head on. “I’m bisexual.”

 _Denial via technicality,_ Sherlock mused. _Truth by way of omission._ John really _wasn’t_ gay, but that hadn’t exactly meant what he’d been implying — that he wasn’t attracted to men at all. It had just been the easy way out. Really, John should be thanking Irene Adler for giving him the final push to admit what Sherlock had hoped was the truth for a while now. Then again, if that were the case, what should _he_ be thanking for his own push? The HOUND virus and John’s near-death? _Unthinkable._

The small clock on the hall table chose that moment to toll: eleven chimes that shattered the quiet calm of the foyer, and they both startled. Sherlock glanced toward Mrs Hudson’s door, and John nodded and tilted his chin to gesture toward the stairs.

They climbed quietly but quickly, and Sherlock’s mind raced as he counted the steps. What happened now? What was the protocol after flatmates kissed? The surreality of that very question struck him and he felt a bit dizzy. He and John had _kissed_. Did that mean John wanted more? Did he want what Sherlock wanted, which was _all of it_ , _everything_ , for the rest of their lives … or just some of it, like sex? Could Sherlock just ask that sort of thing? What if John regretted this in the morning? What if he had been caught up in the moment and wasn’t thinking clearly? They’d both been through so much these past few weeks, and it was late, and the adrenaline of their argument barely an hour before might still be taking a toll, and John was still recovering from being so ill —

“Sherlock,” John’s voice over his shoulder pierced through his building panic. A warm hand closed around his elbow, and Sherlock turned. They were in the sitting room, and John had hung up his coat at some point. Sherlock had frozen by the door, thinking so hard it prevented him from even the simple task of walking into the flat. Everything felt odd, as though happening in slow motion. The soft glow of the lamps reflected like warm sparks in John’s eyes, full of fondness and delighted disbelief. The same feelings now hit Sherlock like a punch.

In a rush they closed the distance between them, magnets unable to deny the attraction any longer. Their lips met, and Sherlock felt all his restraint evaporate. He wanted to consume John, suddenly filled with a ravenous hunger, seeking to taste every piece of him. John’s hands cradled his head, fingers twining through curls, thumbs caressing the strong line of Sherlock’s jaw. Gentle but firm. Possessive. Sherlock’s hands couldn’t settle, hungrily roaming every inch from John’s strong shoulders to his soft waist and slim hips. Inexperience and desperation made him sloppy but John guided him, slowing their pace. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, and John hummed a hungry response as they grasped and fondled. John licked his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, and moaned when Sherlock opened his mouth to let him in. Tongues traced and tasted and explored; they sucked and licked and bit. It was exquisite.

The sensations were all at once not enough and too much. Sherlock scrambled to focus and catalog every single one, even as another part of him felt hypnotized, powerless to keep from being swallowed up in it. John’s fingers, soft but calloused from years on the battlefield and in the surgery, stroking at the nape of his neck. John’s chest, warm and solid, pressed against his, heaving with desire. The smell of him, drugstore shampoo and tea and _John —_ was the only thing Sherlock wanted to breathe for the rest of his life.

John’s hands moved down to Sherlock’s waist, thumbs tracing the arch of his hip bones through his trousers. He moaned and shifted, nipping and kissing his way to Sherlock’s neck, sucking at his pulse point in a way that ripped the breath from Sherlock’s lungs. An aching heat throbbed between his legs, demanding more. He couldn’t help but whimper as stubble scraped his sensitive throat when John’s mouth moved to the hollow between his jaw and ear. His entire universe was right here, centered around John Watson. It was everything he had never dared to dream about, things he never knew he could be allowed. He felt surrounded by John, _possessed_ by the man. The world around them ceased to exist. He wanted to fuse with John, for their cells to dance and weave and intertwine themselves the way their bodies were.

He needed to be closer, so much closer.

John started to steer them back towards the couch, but when Sherlock held firm, John pulled away. His eyes met Sherlock’s, nervous, searching.

“We don’t have to —”

“I was thinking my bed would be more comfortable,” Sherlock managed, surprised to find himself quite out of breath.

John nodded emphatically. “Right,” he gasped, and before Sherlock knew it, their lips were crashing together again, John’s tongue insistent, untamed, snaking around Sherlock’s. They stumbled down the hall, pushing and pulling, leading and being led.

The bedroom was dark, the streetlamps and the hall casting the room in soft shadows. Sherlock walked John backwards the few steps to the bed, and pushed him down on his back. John laid back languidly, one leg on the mattress, the other foot planted on the floor, and looked up at Sherlock with a predatory lust he’d never seen before. Sherlock inhaled quickly, deeply, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel himself trembling, desperate and quaking with adrenaline on the exhale. John bit his lip, unsuccessfully hiding a smile and took Sherlock’s hand, pulling him into the space between his legs.

Sherlock crawled over John, bracing himself on his forearms as John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, running his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Dipping his head to recapture John’s mouth, Sherlock gasped as their hips rocked together, and his erection found an answering hardness. Opening his eyes in surprise, Sherlock found himself lost in a raging sea of sapphire blue. John’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in exhilarated awe.

For a beat they were still except for their heaving breaths, then John’s strong hands moved to grip Sherlock’s backside, pulling him closer as John bucked up, grinding them together. Molten hot pleasure poured through Sherlock, and he pressed back into John, eliciting a deliciously tormented groan.  

Sherlock tugged at John’s shirt, pulling it loose from where it was tucked, fingers sliding under layers of shirt and vest to caress the smooth skin of his waist. John shifted up, swiftly pulling the whole mess of fabric over his head and throwing it across the room. Sherlock’s hands began to roam John’s chest, coarse golden hair and the gentle outlines of muscles. Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck, suddenly certain he would go mad at the intoxicating smell of him, and John’s fingers fumbled at his dress shirt buttons. Trousers and pants were next, shucked and tossed, carnal evidence in piles of clothes strewn about the room.

“Jesus,” John breathed in awe as his eyes roamed Sherlock’s body, unconsciously licking along the outline of his bottom lip before he bit it. He guided Sherlock to lie down and straddled him, gently rutting against him where their arousal met. Sherlock whimpered and threw his head back, eyes closed against the wave of pleasure. John moaned in response. “Even more bloody gorgeous like this than I imagined.”

Sherlock felt a flush creep into his cheeks, suddenly self-conscious, and remembering just how inexperienced he was. He felt overwhelmed with emotion and savage greed, equal parts nervous and excited about what they were about to do. It was all happening so fast.

“Sherlock?” John asked, pulling away, worry lacing his voice. “Are you — is this — alright? Do you want to stop?” His fingers traced Sherlock’s upper arms before gripping them lightly. “I … I got a little carried away, I’m sorry, we should slow down —”

“No,” Sherlock whispered, leaning up for John to kiss him. “I want this. I don’t want to wait. We’ve already wasted enough time.”

John searched his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock murmured against his lips, then swallowed and ducked his head, reticent. “I’ve just — I’ve never —”

John’s palms cradled Sherlock’s cheeks, tilting his head back up. He kissed his temple, working his way down along Sherlock’s jaw until he reached his mouth. “I’ve got you,” John breathed. “I’ll take care of you.”

John was soft and slow, deft fingers and awestruck praise as he felt every inch of Sherlock and showed Sherlock how to feel him. The pleasure was agonizing, devastating and beautiful. John’s hands touched him in ways he’d never known to touch himself. His eyes roamed Sherlock’s body hungrily, reverently, filled with affection. Their hearts pounded in tandem, tribal drums setting their chests to heaving. Every breath was desperation and exultation. Every caress and embrace, every flex and shift was a dance their bodies knew without being taught. Sherlock felt like a living bolt of lightning, electricity crackling through him in waves of heady lust as he came apart in John’s arms.

Afterwards, they lay sated — _drunk on oxytocin and prolactin,_ which Sherlock could not resist pointing out — tangled in the sheets and each other. Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of John’s neck; John shifted and dipped his head to lay his cheek along Sherlock’s. John’s warm arms enveloped him, and he hummed softly, content.

 _We can have this now_. What Sherlock had believed would remain firmly in his fantasies was his reality now, and that reality was unimaginably better than what he’d dreamed.

He could feel John smile, face buried in Sherlock’s curls, even as his body started to relax into the first stages of sleep. Sherlock realized John must be exhausted — the last time John had done anything so physically taxing was when he’d been running through the moor weeks ago.

The memory of the last time they’d been close overwhelmed him. A damp cave in the forest. John, radiating fever instead of comforting warmth. The smell of blood, sweat, and the moor. Rapid, pained breathing instead of eager gasps and moans. Antiseptic and alarms, tubes and wires, electricity arcing through John’s body.

They’d walked along a razor’s edge — come so close to never having this moment. If the DRACO had not worked, Sherlock would be alone now. He could almost feel John evaporate from beneath him as he imagined it. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, and he sniffed and blinked them away.

John’s arms tensed around him. “Hey,” he said quietly, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear. “What’s wrong? Was it too much?”

“I almost lost you,” Sherlock murmured, his chest suddenly tight, barely registering that he was speaking out loud. “We came so close to never having this.” His vision blurred and he swallowed against a lump in his throat. Emotions raged within him, the fear of loss still so real warring with relief which seemed like it couldn’t possibly be.

“Sherlock,” John said calmly. “Look at me.”

Sherlock sat up, and forced himself to meet John’s gaze. A pained look crossed John’s face as he took in Sherlock’s anguish, but his eyes were full of affection. He brushed an errant curl off Sherlock’s forehead.

“But you _didn’t_ lose me,” he whispered. “I’m here.” He reached for Sherlock’s hand, and laid the palm flat against his chest. Beneath Sherlock’s fingers, beneath John’s ribs, a strong, steady drum. “I’m _right here,”_ he said, leaving Sherlock’s hand on his chest, and kissed him again, soft and slow, solid and warm and so, so _real._ “And I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock bowed his head and rested his forehead to John’s for a moment just breathing.

“And you want … this?” Sherlock said, pulling in a shaky breath. “With … with … _me?”_

 _“God,_ yes,” John whispered, voice laden with the desperation of a man offered water after being stranded in the desert. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Even — ?”

“You really still need to ask?” John spread his arms to indicate the state of the bed. “Anything you want,” he promised.

“I want _everything,”_ Sherlock whispered, his heart clenching in his chest. “I want things I don’t even know I want yet. Not just this, now, what we’ve just… but –– _everything_.”

John lifted Sherlock’s hand from where it still lay, warm and heavy, over his heart, and brought it to his lips, kissing Sherlock’s palm. “Everything sounds perfect to me.”

They kissed again, gentle and tender: a promise exchanged in the space between.

 

* * *

  

 **Epilogue - Two Weeks Later**  

 

* * *

 

 “Yoohoo! Boys?” Mrs Hudson called as she climbed the stairs.

“Good morning, Mrs H,” John replied from behind her, carrying a stack of his folded shirts down to meet her in the kitchen.

“Good morning, dear. Mrs Turner and I spent the whole day canning yesterday, and I made a batch of strawberry jam. Thought you and Sherlock might like a few jars.”

“Ta very much. That jam is the only way I can get any food into him at all some days,” John said with a grin, walking through the kitchen entryway and setting the clothes down on the table. He accepted the small, quilted glass jars from Mrs Hudson. “He can’t resist it. He’s just getting ready after a shower, but I’m sure he’ll grab a spoon when he comes out here and sees these. I’d hide a jar for myself, but he knows all the good spots in the flat.”

She smiled, pleased at the praise. “I also brought up your post,” she said, laying the bundle that had been tucked under her arm on the table next to John’s stack of shirts. “You boys packing to go away on another case?”

John ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, uh … no —”

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows. “On holiday, then?”

“Not quite …” He took a deep breath and looked up at her, ready to explain, to tell the first person in their life that he and Sherlock were together, really properly _together_ now, but found nothing but mirth. She was all but biting her lips and her eyes were twinkling with anticipatory delight. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Of course she knew all along._ In retrospect, it was obvious she’d been rooting for this all along. John had to admire how well she held herself together for someone who must have been gloating inside.

“So, you _won’t_ be needing two after all, then,” she teased, knowingly.

John felt himself blush and couldn’t help but smile. “Guess not.”

She clasped her hands together and grinned at him fondly. “Oooh! I knew you’d both catch on _eventually_ ,” she said, squeezing his arm affectionately. “I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.”

“You knew that we’ve––?”

“I may be old, but I’ve kept all my hearing,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “And it’s not like you two seem to go to any great lengths to keep things quiet in the bedroom.”

John’s mouth dropped open and he snapped it shut, staring at the floor and wishing he could sink into it.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry about that … We’ll, uh … We’ll be church mice from now on.”

“Just when I’m home, dear. If I’m out you can go wild. Good for the soul to let it out sometimes, you know.”

John nodded once and cursed Sherlock for being lucky enough to avoid this living nightmare.

“Send him down later so I can give him my well-wishes?” she asked sweetly as she turned to leave, and John hummed an agreement dumbly.

He stood for a moment after she’d gone, replaying all the times they’d made love (in two short weeks he’d already lost count), trying to remember the things that had been moaned or shouted. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. They were going to need to figure out how to soundproof the bedroom. Maybe a thick rug would absorb some noise. He and Sherlock would definitely be having a conversation about this.

Trying to distract himself, John picked up the stack of mail, thumbing through, weeding the bills from the junk, when the last item in the pile caught his eye: a glossy postcard covered in balls of white, tan, brown, and black fur. Upon closer inspection John realized they were bunnies.

 _Greetings from Okunoshima!_ was written across the bottom in a thick white font. John turned the postcard over to see a large international stamp from Japan, just as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, still-damp curls frizzing a bit at the ends. John held the postcard up to show him.

“We got a postcard with a flock of bunnies on it,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“A fluffle,” Sherlock corrected absently, eyes going wide in delight at the sight of the new supply of jam lined up on the worktop.

“Excuse me?” John replied, cocking an eyebrow.

Sherlock produced a spoon from the drawer and picked up one of the jars. “It’s not a _flock_ of _bunnies_ , John. Those are _wild_ rabbits. A group of them is referred to as a fluffle.”

John’s jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed. “You’re putting me on,” he said with a huffed out a laugh.

Sherlock sighed and set the spoon and jar down on the table. His expression was stoic as he plucked the card from John’s hands, scrutinizing the photo. “Never. Though the term is most commonly used in northern Canada, so I suppose you can also refer to them a colony or a herd. But not a _flock of bunnies.”_ He raised his eyes to look at John, who caught a glimmer of mischief.

John rolled his eyes. “Cheeky git.” He stood next to Sherlock, sliding an arm around his waist. The back of the postcard was covered in tiny blocky handwriting, completely legible but obviously written by a child.

 

_Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,_

_Thank you for the lovely trip to Japan! I can’t believe they have a whole island covered in rabbits! I hoped Bluebell had found her way there, but I didn’t see her. We visited during the day so I don’t know if any of the other rabbits glowed. Mummy said it was too kind of you but she is excited to get to Hawaii. We hope Dr Watson is feeling much better!_

_Lots of love, Kirsty Stapleton age 8_

 

John looked up at Sherlock in surprise. “You sent Doctor Stapleton and her daughter on _holiday?”_

“Well, Kirsty _is_ rather fond of rabbits, and Japan just happens to have an entire island full of them. Granted, it has a bit of a nefarious history, as the Japanese Imperial Army manufactured thousands of tons of poison gas there during World War II. It’s unclear if the rabbits were originally test subjects, released into the wild after the war, or if a group of school children in the 70s left a few behind on a field trip. In any event, with no natural predators, the island’s rabbit population grew exponentially, and now they enjoy their days being fed cabbage by tourists.”

“And then onto Hawaii?” John said in disbelief.

“It was the least I could do,” he admitted with a shrug, voice going soft. “I owe quite a debt of gratitude to Doctor Stapleton for all she did for you. For us.”

“Yes,” John said, angling for a kiss. “Still, that’s very sweet of you. Sending them to visit the froofles.”

 _“Fluffles,”_ Sherlock corrected, exasperated.

“Yeah, well whatever they’re called, it’s still a bit … _sentimental_ for you, isn’t it?”

“Is that the last of your clothes, then?” Sherlock asked, turning to the kitchen table and picking up the stack of John’s shirts.

John chuckled. “I know what you’re doing, Sherlock. You can’t fool me.”

Sherlock looked up innocently. “Hmm?”

“You’re trying to change the subject.”

“I’ll just go and put these away, shall I?” Sherlock replied primly over his shoulder, and started down the hall.

John shook his head and tried to school the grin on his face as he watched Sherlock disappear into the bedroom ( _our bedroom!_ ) before he followed.

The warm morning sun filled the space with light. Most of John’s wardrobe was laid out on the bed in neat stacks; folded trousers, shirts, and jumpers on hangers all awaited placement. Sherlock stood by the dresser, his back to the door, attentively filling a newly emptied drawer with John’s underthings. He had approached the project with his usual possessed dedication, and the masterfulness of an army general. John doubted he’d be able to maintain as meticulous a sock index as his partner did, but for Sherlock he’d be willing to try if it was that important.

He cleared his throat. “You know, Sherlock … Doctor Stapleton’s not the only one we need to thank.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, a pair of John’s red pants in his hand, but he didn’t turn. “Indeed,” he agreed, and resumed loading the drawer. “I checked your schedule. You’re accompanying Lestrade to see a football game this Sunday. He’s the newest season ticket holder for Manchester United. He was delighted. So was Mycroft, since you’ve awarded him a stay of execution, and postponed his first sporting event a little longer.”

“His _first_ sporting event? Really?”

“The most athletic thing Mycroft has ever set eyes on is the opera,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

John smiled, but couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He knew the brothers’ relationship was strained on the best of days, but the lengths Mycroft had gone to to see that John had the very best chance at survival were undeniable. He’d mobilized a helicopter search of Dartmoor, assembled the best doctors in Great Britain, and procured an expensive and rare experimental antiviral which ultimately saved John’s life. He’d rearranged his schedule and set up a makeshift office at Baskerville so he and Lestrade were able to stay until it was clear John was on a solid road to recovery. His efforts went above and beyond, reached a level of dedication that even Sherlock couldn’t refute. It was proof that, no matter Mycroft’s often dubious morals or motivations or inability to display conventional signs of affection, he did truly love his little brother.

As hard as it might be for Sherlock to admit, Mycroft was more deserving of their gratitude than anyone.

As if he could read John’s mind ( _of course he could_ ), Sherlock closed the drawer and braced his arms on the dresser. He ducked his head towards his shoulder to regard John out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sure Mycroft will hold his involvement in your recovery over my head for the rest of my life.”

“Sherlock —”

“For once, I agree that he should,” Sherlock said, turning to face John, who couldn’t hide the shock from his face. “I will never take for granted the fact that you are with me,” Sherlock said quietly, and although his voice was steady, his eyes were fraught with emotion. “I know that would not be possible without my brother’s intervention. If he calls on me, I will assist him in whatever capacity he asks, without _too much_ complaint.”

John found he was speechless, completely caught off-guard. This level of humility and thoughtfulness didn’t — _couldn’t_ — develop overnight, or even in the few weeks they’d been together. John couldn’t deny that their romantic relationship had changed Sherlock, but thoughtful gifts of gratitude? Admitting and accepting he owed his adversary of a sibling an open-ended favor? This type of change didn’t happen instantly. It had been in Sherlock all along, John realized; he’d just been hiding it behind the carefully constructed façade of a pretend sociopath. What had happened to John, and what they had now become, was merely a catalyst giving Sherlock permission to cautiously allow his sentimental side out into the light of day — to reveal a bit more of his true self.

Sherlock cleared his throat and picked up half the stack of John’s jumpers by their hangers. He opened the wardrobe and pushed aside his suits to make room. “Still,” he said over his shoulder, “I’m sure his new subscription to Sponge’s Cake-of-the-Month Club will help to alleviate any ravenous hunger for recompense.”

John finally allowed himself to dissolve into giggles, and when Sherlock turned away from the wardrobe John saw the grin lighting up his face in a way that made John’s heart feel like it might burst.

Sherlock’s expression softened and he worried his lower lip, eyes boring into John’s in a lascivious way that sent a shock straight to John’s groin. “Speaking of ravenous hunger,” Sherlock purred seductively.

John chuckled. “Bed’s a little occupied right now,” he said, gesturing to his homeless clothes.

Sherlock scooped up the tower of trousers and whipped open a drawer, packing them in at lightning speed and turning back to look at John with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye.

John put his hands on his hips. “Second round this morning? You sure?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to?” Sherlock challenged, yanking open another drawer and quickly loading in a pile of John’s shirts.

John shook his head and laughed. “You are incorrigible. Let me at least go lock the doors, lest Mrs Hudson come up for another jam delivery and be delightfully scandalized. We need to talk about soundproofing this room, by the way,” he said, amused when Sherlock’s eyes went wide with horror as understanding dawned on him.

John closed and locked the kitchen and sitting room doors quickly, stopping in the kitchen en route back to the bedroom. He surveyed the fridge for a moment, pulling down a few expired coupons and a takeout menu from a shawarma restaurant that had closed. Clearing a space front and center, he affixed the bunny-covered postcard in the blank space with a large magnet, then stood back for a moment to admire it.

It was amazing how much impact a single glowing rabbit had ended up having on their lives.

John took a few steps down the hall in time to see Sherlock’s pants fly across the room and drape themselves over the top of the standing mirror. Doubling back, he grabbed one of the jam jars and spoon off the table. There was only one kind of experimenting they were allowed to do on each other these days, and John figured it was his his turn for some delicious retribution.

  


**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fluffle_ really is a valid way to refer to a group of wild rabbits, and London's "Sponge" bakery has a mouthwatering cake-of-the-month club I think Mycroft will enjoy immensely ;)
> 
> I had a few requests to make the print copy available for purchase (I had originally just printed it for myself) but if you are so inclined, a paperback copy can be purchased here: http://www.lulu.com/shop/88thparallel/the-vapor-variant/paperback/product-23783510.html
> 
> I kept the price almost at cost, my goal wasn’t to make money, it just means a lot to me that anyone would want my words on their bookshelf :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["The Cave" - Commissioned Illustration by Cecilia G.F.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917363) by [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel)
  * [Cover for "The Vapor Variant" by 88thParallel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917426) by [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel)
  * [Cover for The Vapor Variant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986132) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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